


Sometime in August

by rickyling



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Child Abuse, Drug Use, M/M, Minor Violence, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 00:03:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4685153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickyling/pseuds/rickyling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood stained knuckles, burnt out cigarettes, abandoned red solo cups. Daryl Dixon cracks his knuckles, the bandaids pull on his skin, his dog paces at his feet. Sometime in June, Daryl meets Rick Grimes, curly haired and innocent, his mind still virgin. Maggie tells him it’s not worth it, but his lips are drawn to Rick’s collarbone like a moth to a flame, like a Dixon to self-destruction. That’s what this was about, after all. Daryl knows this will kill him, or at worst leave him more broken and bloody than his father ever could. Self-destruction is a drug, and Rick his dirty needle. </p><p>Mama said you find something to fight for, and its yours by default. But don’t fall in love – that’s a dead man’s game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> consider it a cornflower blues re-write :) find me on tumblr @normansreedus (maryl.co.vu)

It’s late September, when all the leaves have fallen, setting the ground ablaze with colors. They crunch beneath his feet as he half-jogs down the street, desperate to keep up with his longer-legged companion. Where they’re going, he doesn’t know. The bandaid on his cheek pulls at his skin at each huff of breath, theres a draft in some of the one’s wrapped around his knuckles. The paste is failing like it always does after a while, even though these cuts were fresh.

“Do y’want a smoke?” His companion asks, holding one out without stopping. Daryl graciously accepts it, stumbling a little when trying to light it. He’d later perfect the move of lighting while running-- but that was in years to come. Not when he was twelve and his ankles had just stretched out of the bottom of his hand-me-down jeans. Merle keeps walking, not taking into account Daryl’s struggles to keep up.

“Where’re we goin’?” Daryl whines, panting even in the cold autumn air. Where his pants lack in size his jacket makes up for, flapping over his fingers a few inches and catching on the wind as he runs. The hem wears like a skirt around his waist, the insulation worn down by previous years of wear.

“Somewhere,” Merle replies, his still young voice raspy already. Daryl pouts but doesn’t press, instead opting to bring the cigarette up to his small lips and inhaling. His body still aches from the most recent fight, one he started with a boy in school for picking on Maggie. He didn’t know why people still did that -- Daryl had fought enough people that he thought they’d be scared off by now.

The sun was going down and it hurts to breathe now, between the aching in his ribs from the fight, the whistle of cold air in his lungs, and the smoke. Merle finally -- finally -- notices Daryl’s faltering steps, the way he drops the stub of his smoke on the ground and almost joins it when the toe of his boot catches on a root. The older slowly stops and the younger obliges happily, resting his hands on his skinny knees.

“C’mon, baby brother,” Merle says, crouching in front of Daryl on the dirty road. Daryl blinks at his brother’s back for a moment, the invitation as welcoming as it was confusing. Deciding the soreness in his body wasn’t going to waver by feigning being tough, Daryl accepted the piggy back.

Merle eases him up easily, starting off down the road. Daryl was skinny-- he weighed far less than a normal twelve year old should. But he made up for it by being tough, just like Merle taught him. He got in fights and smoked and talked back to teachers, anything to make himself look better. He had no idea he’d still be doing so even when his muscles filled in and people feared him; old habits die hard.

“Say li’l brother,” Merle grunts after a while, and the sounds of leaves crunching no longer satisfy either of their ears. Daryl hums into his shoulder blade, fatigue and hungry and cold creeping up on him like he was a trapped fly. The mountains their town was nestled between made it easy for the sun to sink away quick; they were almost completely submerged in darkness. “When did ya first learn about true heartbreak?”

Daryl has to think for a moment, narrow his eyes against the nip of cold on his nose. “Never have,” he opts to say, and then after a second of consideration, adds: “Never will.”

Merle chuckles. “How can you be so sure?”

“I just am.”

“Okay.”

They don’t talk anymore after that.

Merle takes him to a special grove in the trees, where Daryl could watch the sun set while his brother cleaned his cuts with antibacterial. It stung, but Daryl had gotten used to it at that point. What really hurt was the cold, hard ground-- the feeble warmth his clothes and the leaves on the ground provided. He wanted to be home with Maggie under blankets. But Daddy couldn’t see him all scraped up like this.

The train tracks a mere six feet in front of them start rumbling, a seconds later a train comes rattling down the track, shaking the ground below. Daryl just blinked as it flew past him, the sheets of metal blocking out the orange sunset. The wind pulls at his too long hair and pushes gusts of chilly air over his face, painting it red. Merle grunted and glared at it, shifting slightly so his bigger body was in front of Daryl’s smaller one, strategically blocking his little brother from the chill.

“Where’s that train goin’?” Daryl asks with a yawn, feeling an odd sense of loneliness when the train passes and the ground steadies. Merle pulls back from tending to Daryl’s face and picks up one of his hands, starting to clean out the cuts there.

“The big city, baby brother,” Merle grins, moving on to the next hand. Daryl watches the taillights of the train until its long gone, swallowed by the night and the distance. Atlanta is blocked by the mountains around their town, the Georgia pine trees blocking out the light pollution and the rolling hills muting the never-ending sounds. Daryl nods slowly, yawning again.

“Can we go home now?” The youngest Dixon asks, teeth clattering. The fall was cold enough, but the mountain air only made it worse. Merle sighs and leans back to look at Daryl up and down, checking for major scratches. Daryl looks his brother in the eye, his bottom lip trembling against his will. He brings a thumb to his mouth and starts chewing on it.

“Yeah,” Merle finally caves, standing up and scooping Daryl into his arms in the process. Daryl was too big now to be cradled by his brother like this, but neither cared as Daryl was asleep the second his head fell limp against his brothers chest.

\--

It’s a silent storm, one that contains no thunder, but nevertheless, the sky is alive with lightning. Daryl sits with a cigarette to his lips, watching the night light up silently. Maggie sits to his right, hugging her knees against the chill of early spring. They were fourteen now, readying themselves for the summer between middle and high school. Maggie sprouted just as Daryl did, puberty making her face some how prettier and her legs longer. She smoked sometimes too, not as often as Daryl, as she didn’t want to get addicted. Daryl always thought it was a load of crap-- that she’d get addicted one day. She never would; her pretty lungs were forever clean.

Maggie opens her mouth to say something, then shuts it quickly for whatever reason. Daryl spares her a glance for a few moments, waiting to see if she’ll speak anyway. When she doesn’t, he turns back to the sky. The roof they’re sitting on is damp with previous rain and dew, their long hair is caught in the slight breeze. Daryl finishes his cigarette and put it out on the roof tiles, the burn mark joining dozens of small circles from the same nature. They are silent for a long time.

“Why’re ya always fightin’, Daryl?” Maggie finally asks, her unspoken question from earlier finally voiced. She doesn’t sound judgmental or angry, just curious, as she brushes a strand of hair out of her face. Lightning flashes, highlighting the soft features of her face.

Daryl shrugs and replies, “I dunno, jus’ am.”

He knows for a fact that isn’t a good enough answer. He knows she’ll ask it again in years time-- and he knows he wont have an answer then, either. Daryl hopes one day he’ll figure it out, why exactly he’s fighting so much. Hershel secretly think it’s because he never fought his father back, so he takes it out on everyone else. In a few months the town will come to think he fights for the black puppy who’s life he saves. Daryl thinks he fights just to feel.

He thinks back to when he was twelve and Merle gave him a piggyback ride, asking when he first experienced true heartbreak. Daryl had replied so confidently that he never had and never would, for no other reason than ignorance. When it came to fighting, Daryl never backed away. _He laughed at fear, afraid of nothing._

Mama said you find something to fight for, and its yours by default. But don’t fall in love -- thats a dead man’s game.

 


	2. Sometime in June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl and Maggie meet a new friend, and Rick learns a new trick.

“Daryl? Babe? Who’s that?” Maggie Greene asks, leaning against the peeling green paint of her front porch. Vanilla ice cream drips off her cone and off her fingers, landing on the gravel below her. Daryl looks up from cleaning his regulation crossbow, using a stained hand to brush away his dirty blonde hair from his cornflower blue eyes. He wrinkles his nose as an expensive looking car speeds along the quiet road, kicking up dust right in front of the country store.

“Prick!” Daryl spats after it, spitting a sunflower seed off the porch and leaping to his feet. Maggie looks up, tongue halfway poised on her ice cream, and smiles at the stain left on Daryl’s face from the polish. “Asshole’s pro’ly jus’ passin’ through.”

“Right,” Maggie chuckles, sweeping her tongue around the cone to stop more ice cream from dripping. “So,” she continues, putting a hand on her booty short clad hips. “you excited? School’s finally over.”

“Fuck yeah,” Daryl snorts, sitting back down on the porch swing next to his black German Shepherd. Atlanta barks, as if she understood the conversation and knew that her days were about to get much less lonely. Daryl digs around in the pile of paraphernalia next to him, pulling out a package of Menthols and offering one to Maggie. His girl nods and accepts the cigarette, waiting for Daryl to light his before finishing her ice cream and lighting her own.

Taking a long drag, Maggie asks, “What are your plans for us this summer?” she winks, stepping between Daryl’s long legs and staring down at him.

Daryl snickers as his hands find his friends hips, thumbs finding their way up under her pale blue tank top. Maggie’s hands found his shoulders, toying with the loose trends of his cut off plaid button up. She planted a kiss on his forehead as he stared up at her, moving the cigarette up and down on his teeth.

“I dunno,” he hums. “Somethin’ fun.”

“I expect nothing less from the master,” Maggie chuckles as she pulls away, putting her smoke out on one of the porch railings, a identical small round mark joining millions of others in the wood. The setting sun cast orange on her short brown hair, giving her the look of a literal angel. “Now, lets go smoke a lot of weed.”

\---

“Hey,” Daryl brings the blunt up to his pink lips, eyes narrowing against the setting sun. “Whattya think this summers gon’ be like...?”

Michonne glares at him from his left, deliberately waiting for him to pass it along before answering. “Boring.”

“Optimistic.”

“We should do somethin’ different,” a redheaded boy gracing the name Abraham Ford declares, hiccuping around the cigarette resting against his teeth. “Like, rob a bank, or somethin’.”

Maggie snorts. “Or you could get a hair cut. That’s different.”

“Fuck you. I take pride in these long, orange locks.”

Daryl laughs, falling back against the rock they were sitting on. The group of four perched atop one of the rock overlooking the swimming hole, with weed stolen from Daryl’s brother Merle and some shitty 80s music playing in the background. The sun was going down on their first day of summer, and they right where they’d started it and every summer before: at the stupid swimming hole. The blunt was past along slowly until the last puff was inhaled, and they sat in silence, all letting the smoke chase away the haunting thoughts that normally occupied their delinquent minds. Atlanta laid behind Daryl, sprawled out across the sun-warmed stone, chest rising and falling rhythmically.

The evening was quiet, as it typically was. There was no noise or light pollution; the mountains surrounding their small town blocked out the busy nightlife of Atlanta. The closest thing to a city was King’s County, and even that was a good two hours away. Isolation.

“We should throw a party,” Michonne suggests, pulling a hidden cigarette out of her dreaded black hair. Daryl considers the proposal while she lights it, leaning back so his head was in Maggie’s lap and Atlanta’s was in his. Somewhere in the distance a child cries, but Daryl chuckles.

“Yeah, where?”

“Here?” Maggie suggests, casually braiding Daryl’s long hair. The boy hums, running his hand absentmindedly on the soft fur around Atlanta’s black ears. The weed makes him tired, his blue eyes drooping as Maggie’s fingers run over his scalp. Yawning, he nods, letting his eyes close.His friends agree, and thats the last he hears from them, for when his blue eyes open again, they’re gone.

Maggie nudges him with her knee, and Daryl clambers to his feet. She smiles at him, holding out her hand as a quiet invitation. He takes it in his, enjoying the familiar contrast of her smooth skin against his rough palms. Atlanta brushes up against his leg and they start walking, carefully picking their way across the river and up the hill. They walk down the country dirt road, silent all the way to Maggie’s house. The porch stairs creak under their weight, and the old screen door announces their arrival with a rusty squeak.

Up the back staircase and down the hall to Maggie’s room they remain silent, until they strip down to their underwear and flop onto Maggie’s clean sheets. Maggie is smiling, her eyes glazed over from weed and exhaustion, and Daryl doesn't doubt that he looks exactly the same way. They gaze at the ceiling, imagining dancing stars and revolving planets, until they drift off. The last thing Maggie says, before Daryl slips into complete unconsciousness, is a statement he agrees with all too much.

“I want to fall in love this summer.”

\---

“Beth, I’m tellin’ ya,” Daryl grunts, tossing the football back over the shelves and across the store. Beth hops off the counter to catch it, just narrowly avoiding knocking over the entire gum display. “I could totally take down a bear if I wanted to.”

“Maybe with a _gun_ ,” Beth singsongs, throwing the ball back to him. It goes off center at the last second, crashing into a bowl of penny candy. They both grimace, biting their tongues as Maggie glares at them from behind the register. Her shoulder length brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her arms are crossed over her black tank top.

“Really?” the brunette growls, flipping them off.

“Sorry, sis,” Beth giggles, pushing her own blonde hair behind her ears. “I gotta go anyway. Zach’s taking me to the river,” she ends her sentence with a twirl on her Old Navy flip flops, long pink skirt spinning with her. Daryl snorts and shoos her away, crossing over to Maggie, who waves goodbye to her little sister.

The bell on the door tinkles, announcing her departure, and the store is silent.

Daryl waltzes over to the register, hopping up and slipping a quarter into the gum ball machine. He pops the treat into his mouth, chewing loudly in Maggie’s face to annoy her. She watched him with a disgusted look on her face. The boy chuckled and wiped his sweaty hands off on the front of his plaid button-up, the sleeves cut off as well. He reached into his cargo shorts and pulled out a dog treat, looking around for Atlanta.

“By the couch,” Maggie yawns, stretching out on the counter and burying her face in her arms. Daryl glanced over at the far corner of the store, where the common area was. They had spent so much time in the store, just hanging out, that last summer Daryl and his brother Merle dragged in a rug, a couch, and an old wood stove to make the shop more homey. Hershel respectfully disagreed at first, but soon warmed up to the idea come winter, when the area was kept warm by the wood stove and Daryl’s quick thinking.

Now, Atlanta slept on the rug, sprawled out in the heat. Her head raised lazily when Daryl whistled lowly, blinking at the treat in his hand without interest. With a shark like grin on his face, Daryl hops off the counted and plops himself down next to her, planting kisses up and down her face.

“Damn, and here I was thinkin’ you only treated me like that,” Maggie mock whines, and Daryl stifles his laugh when Hershel walks in.

“Hey,” the teens chorus in unison, their voices stripped of inflection by the heat.

“Slow day?” Hershel purrs, ruffling Daryl’s hair when he walked passed and planting a kiss on Maggie’s head. They murmured absentmindedly in agreement, hiding yawns in the crooks of their elbows. “Well, lucky for you I got a job for you,” he said it like it was some sort of gift to his kids, who just looked up at him with confusion and dread in their tired eyes.

“Oh boy, do you?” Daryl feigns excitement, yelping when Atlanta nipped at his chin.

Hershel pulls a pen out of the holder by the register and tossed it in his direction, the boy just barely ducking in time. “Yeah, I do. An old friend of mine is up here for the summer -- Laurie Grimes, remember her? -- and she asked if you could keep an eye on her grandson.”

“No, no way,” Daryl leaps to his feet and shot across the room and behind the counter so he could glare at Hershel head on. The seventeen year old looked appalled, almost offended at the proposal. “We ain’t babysitters.”

“He’s your age.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Hershel chuckles, gently knocking Maggie and Daryl’s heads together. “Jus’ give him a chance, I’m sure he’s a good kid.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Maggie hums, leaning against Daryl’s shoulder as the boy held out his hand. Hershel shook it with a smile, using his free hand to pinch at Maggie’s cheek.

The bell tinkles again, catching the trio’s attention. A tall, blonde woman with her hair pulled back in a bun strolls through. Daryl’s nose wrinkles at the sharp, invasive smell of her perfume, but Hershel hurries over to her and embraced her. Following the newcomer was a boy medium in build, with messy hair curling about his ears like a lion’s mane. He stands next to his companion in a blue plaid shirt, shuffling his feet awkwardly on the wooden floorboards. He carefully avoids eye contact with anyone, glancing around the store rather than at the people.

“So good to see you again, darlin’,” the woman purrs, pressing her lips to Hershel’s cheek. Maggie makes a gagging noise in her throat, sliding off the stool and slipping out from behind the counter. Daryl follows her more cautiously, feeling Atlanta press up against his leg. He remains a few paces behind from where Maggie had her arms crossed over her chest.

“Maggie, Daryl,” Hershel says, turning and gesturing. “This is Laurie Grimes, and her grandson Rick.”

_Rick._

Daryl tenses when the boy glanced over at him, head tilted and eyes blinking. Daryl stared back, straightening his posture to fake confidence and pursing his lips. Rick just hid a chuckle behind his wrist, and turned politely to nod at Maggie. The girl shot Daryl a glance over her shoulder, eyebrows raised and green eyes narrowed. Uncomfortable under her stare, Daryl coughed and crouched down next to Atlanta, wrapping his strong arms around her torso.

“And Atlanta, of course,” Hershel purrs, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a treat. He tossed it in the air and Atlanta hopped up out of Daryl’s grasp to catch it, tail wagging. “Well, you three have the day while we catch up,” Hershel continued, nudging Rick towards Maggie and Daryl. “Have fun, and be nice.” he jabbed his finger in Daryl’s direction.

The adults drifted off to the common area, and Maggie shrugs. “C’mon,” she grabs Rick’s hand and yanked him outside. Daryl groans and follows, casting one more desperate glance at Hershel over his shoulder. His adoptive father just waves him off with a smile, and the teen steps out into the summer heat. Atlanta was sniffing around Rick’s shoes, tail wagged as he scratches her ears. The boy looks up when Daryl walked over, holding out his hand.

“Rick Grimes,” he introduces more formally, and Daryl nodded and accepted the gesture.

“Daryl Dixon.”

Their eyes met a little too long.

“So,” Maggie interrupted, and Daryl jerked his hand back, not meeting anyone’s gaze. He stepped back, keeping his eyes trained on his dog.

“Swimming hole,” Daryl grunts, taking off down the street before anyone could argue. Atlanta follows, shadowing his brisk pace. She veers off into the brush on the side of the road to sniff around, only her black tail visible above the tall grass.

He turns down the path through the trees, following the sounds of rushing water and laughing teenagers like a moth to a flame. He breaks through the tree line again, standing twenty or so feet above the river, right next to a stooping waterfall. Below him, teenagers occupied either the water or the towering rocks above it, some sunbathing and others waiting for the water to clear out so they could jump. Atlanta immediately hops down the rocks, splashing into the water.

Abraham, who was standing on the tallest jumping rock with a beer in one hand and his girlfriend’s ass in the other, noticed Daryl first and called out. Everyone else turned to him, whooping and beckoning him over. He just barely registered Maggie and Rick appearing at his shoulders, raising their hands to block out the sun.

“Whoa,” Rick breathes, laughing a little. “Y’all hang out here?”

“Only like, every day,” Maggie snorts, cracking her knuckles. “Now,” she continues, throwing her arm around Rick’s shoulders. “You can either go down like Atlanta did, walk up stream and cross, go down the water slide, or jump.”

Daryl nods, and pulls off his shoes and shirt. He steps to the edge of the rock, grinning over his shoulder, and jumps, flipping in the air and landing in the cold mountain water. He breaks the surface, watching Maggie wiggle out of her clothes into just her bikini, and watches Rick pull his shirt over his head. Seconds later, they land in the water next to him.

\---

Rick’s sitting up on a rock when Daryl slips out of the water for the first time, hunched under a tree, hugging his knees to his chest. Daryl slowly walks up to him, accepting a joint that Michonne handed to him when she passed by. He watches her go, twisting slightly to get a good look at her long, dark legs in that white bikini, before plopping down next to Rick in the shade. The other boy looks at him curiously, eyeing the blunt in Daryl’s fingers like it was a bomb. Daryl sneers.

“Ever smoked before, pretty boy?” Daryl asks, bringing the joint up to his lips. He slowly inhales, never letting his eyes leave Rick’s.

“Don’t call me that,” Rick frowns, inching away a fraction of an inch. “And no, I haven’t.”

Daryl smirks and says, “Ever tried shotgunning?”

“Like, sitting in the front seat of a car?” Rick’s voice is so innocent and soft Daryl almost cries.

“No, no,” Daryl chuckles, moving closer to him. “I breathe in the smoke, and then breathe it out into your mouth. It’s like you’re smokin’ without actually smokin’.”

“Sounds gay.”

“Not if our lips don’t touch.”

“...Okay,” Rick agrees, relaxing a little.

“Okay,” Daryl echoes, bringing the blunt back up to his lips and inhaling, fighting the urge to let the smoke seep into his lungs, rather making it rest in his mouth. He leans forward, right into Rick’s personal space. Their hands touch and their fingers overlap just the slightest, enough for Daryl to notice. Rick closes his eyes and opens his mouth, Daryl following suit as he blows the smoke into the soft lips before him.

Rick coughs immediately, flinching back when the smoke filled his lungs. Daryl threw his head back laughing, waiting for the boy to recover from the coughing fit.

“You’ll get used to it,” Daryl purrs, standing up. Abraham passes by at that moment and Daryl hands him the joint. Rick nods, still teary eyed. Daryl ducks his head in a nod and leaps up the rocks, standing on the tallest one. Rick follows him, standing on the boulder below him and panting. Daryl shouts out to Maggie who was sitting in the water. She waves him over, grinning and making grabby hands. “There’s a lot you’ll get used to.”

“I look forward to it,” Rick says, casting Daryl a glance.

Daryl nods. “You should.”

\---

The sun was going down when Daryl finally crawled out of the water for good, plopping down on the sun warmed rock next to Maggie and Atlanta. Rick followed him out of the water, shaking his head, releasing excess water droplets from his curly hair. Atlanta rested her chin on Daryl’s lap, snoring softly.

“Joint?” Abraham asks, leaning back against a rock with Rosita curled up at his side. Daryl nods, accepting the lit blunt. He brings it to his lips, sighing when the smoke fills his lungs. Maggie takes it from him the second its away from his lips, and he visibly pouts. When Maggie breathes out a smoke ring, Daryl takes the joint from her slender fingers and holds it out to Rick, who gazes at it like its a loaded gun.

“Y’don’t hafta,” Daryl says, bringing it to his lips again.He almost offers to shotgun again, but decided against it. Let him learn. Rick’s brow furrows and he reaches for it, taking it right out of Daryl’s mouth and placing it in his mouth. The boy inhales and coughs, wrinkling his nose and raising a challenging eyebrow at Daryl. The group chuckles softly as Abraham takes the blunt back, taking a drag for himself. They pass it around until Rick takes the last puff, and they get up.

They walked up stream, past the water fall and across the river, stumbling over rocks in the failing light. They say goodbye to Abraham and Rosita who walk further down the road to Abraham’s house, and quietly make their way to Maggie’s.

Hershel and Laurie are waiting on the porch when they arrive, and Daryl’s suddenly praying that she either doesn't know what weed smells like, or is like Hershel and doesn't care what her grandson does.Its one of those, or some other option, because she just says goodnight and her and tells Rick she’ll wait for him in the car. Hershel waits for her to get in her car, waving and goes inside, brushing his hand over Maggie and Daryl’s shoulders.

“Good night,” Daryl breathes, turning to Rick. Maggie echoes him, leaning forward and hugging the boy. Rick smiles, returning the phrase.

“Thanks, for, y’know, hangin’ out with me and shit,” Rick says awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. The orange and yellow colors of the sunset illuminate the curls on his head, casting shadows across his angular face.

“Oi, yer stuck with us this summer, get used to it,” Daryl chuckles, wrapping an arm around Maggie’s shoulders. Rick nods, and laughs, waving as he hopped down the porch steps. Atlanta barked her goodbyes when the car pulled away.

“He’s pretty cool,” Maggie yawns, hugging Daryl and burying her face in his chest. Daryl bends down and scoops her up princess style, kicking open the door and carrying her inside. She laughs, and he sneers.

“Yeah, not as cool as me, though.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kill me?


	3. Vincent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting early bc i'll be busy all weekend :)

Daryl glances up from his journal, raising an eyebrow at Maggie over his black framed glasses. She’s fidgeting in her seat, her muffin and iced tea remaining untouched. She seems hyperaware of the quiet cafe noises around them, flinching at every clink of plates or hum of the cappuccino machine. Daryl sighs and places his pen in the crease of the pages and slamming the cover shut, loud enough to catch Maggie’s attention.

“’sup Mags?” he asks, smiling at her. He already knows what has her wound up like a clock, but he cares enough to still ask.

“Nothin’,” she lies, shoving her hands between her thighs and casting her gaze downward.

“Liar.”

Maggie sighs in defeat, slowly reaching up and pinching a piece off her muffin. “Jus’ worried ‘bout my date with Glenn, is all.” Daryl nods, not quite getting what she was worrying about. Boys were crawling over each other trying to get with the green eyed brunette, all she had to do was be herself and anyone would fall in love with her.

She must’ve been reading his mind, because Maggie reaches across the table and covers Daryl’s hand with her own. She mouths _thank you_ and gives his fingers a squeeze, leaving her hand there while her tongue curled around the straw in her iced tea. Daryl just smiles back, keeps his hand under hers while he reopens his journal and continues sketching. She doesn’t ask what he’s drawing, she already knows. He only ever draws her.

The coffee shop shifts around them for a good time after that, people coming and going. Every now and then, Carol, one of the waitresses and a good friend of the pair, comes over to talk shit about other workers. Her dyed gray hair has pencils stuck in it and her angular face always wears a smile when she stoops to whisper in their ears. Daryl happily accepts the gossip while Maggie watches on, a smile on her face. She never spreads the rumors, Maggie, but she listens.

Finally, when the clock in the corner of the cafe strikes eleven, and Maggie swears because _shit my date’s in an hour_ , the teens toss some money on the table and wave goodbye to Carol. Atlanta follows them out from her hiding spot under the table, trotting unbothered through the cafe.

The gang makes their way through downtown, cutting across the park to avoid the long trek up Sullivan Street to get home. Some kids were playing on the playground when they pass, and they screech and holler their hellos. Maggie and Daryl wave back and Atlanta barks, happy to have the attention. Quickly, as to avoid conversation, they race across the field and up the street, skidding to a halt in Maggie’s driveway.

Beth’s out on the porch swing, strumming away at a guitar and singing one of Daryl’s poems she’d turned into a song. She smiles in greeting, giggling when Maggie ignores her and pushes straight into the house, eager to make herself up. Daryl makes his way slowly up the steps after Atlanta, who happily jumps up onto the swing next to Beth, resting her head in the blonde’s lap. Daryl eases himself down next to his dog, landing heavily in the seat with a grunt and leaning back.

He doesn’t personally remember when Beth was born,-- he was only three--but he does remember her being a constant presence in his early life. She’d follow him and her older sister around like a duckling, befriending their friends and wooing Hershel’s with big blue doe eyes. When she got older, she started trying to boss Daryl and Maggie around, but only ended up getting locked in closets or handcuffed to chairs when the older kids had had enough. It was all in good fun, though, as sibling rivalries were. No matter how much their younger sister would bother them, Daryl and Maggie (and Atlanta, for that matter) were always ready to beat the skull in of anyone who tried bothering them.

“You would think,” Beth starts, maneuvering her guitar around the dog’s head on her lap and placing it on the porch. “Someone as beautiful as her wouldn’t worry about looking all dolled up,” Daryl knew she was talking about Maggie; the youngest Greene was always in awe of how beautiful her older sister was.

Daryl sits up and nods in agreement, letting out a sigh. “Society’s got all these bullshit standards that don’t give no one a break, even if they’s as gorgeous as Maggie”

Beth agrees silently because it was the sad fact. Soon, she would succumb to it to, no matter how hard Daryl or Hershel tried. Daryl leans back again, soaking up the sun and the sound of Beth humming.

A short while after Maggie disappears inside the house and Beth and Daryl fall into a comfortable silence, Rick Grimes pulls up in that damn Cadillac, waving goodbye to his Grandma when he shuts the door behind him. Daryl watches him from hooded, half closed eyes, making sure not to greet the boy before he did. Atlanta raised her head off Beth’s lap, her black ears pricking forward, but too hot to actually bark or make an attempt to run over to Rick. The boy, dressed in a teal t-shirt and ashen jeans, stops at the stairs.

“Hey,” Rick greets, raising a hand to block the sun. Daryl yawns, nodding back to acknowledge him. Rick takes that as a greeting, bless his soul, and continues, “I heard there was an art museum around here. Mind being my tour guide, Dixon?”

Daryl hardly has time to process the question before Beth’s stifling her laughter. Daryl turns to her sharply, and she only giggles louder.

“What the fuck’s so funny?” Daryl demands, sitting up straight and turning to the blonde. Beth covers her hand with her mouth, waving her the other in the air while she caught her breath. Rick’s frowning, watching the exchange with a furrowed brow.

“Nothin’,” Beth lies, one more giggle slipping out. “It’s just, I’m willing to bet anything that Daryl Dixon hasn’t never even heard of that museum, let alone step foot inside of it.”

“ _Rude_ ,” Daryl gasps, slapping a hand on his chest, feigning offense. “I mean,” he says, turning to Rick. “she’s absolutely right, but jumpin’ to conclusions like that?” He faces Beth again. “You should be ashamed, young lady.”

Beth full out laughs now, throwing herself over Atlanta to hug Daryl’s arm. Even Rick chuckles, shifting his weight and grinning up at them. Daryl peels himself away after a few moments, ruffling the Greene’s blonde hair and standing up. He stretches, feeling his bones crack under his skin.

“Yeah,” he finally decides, scratching the side of his face. Rick blinks at him, and cocks his head. “Les’ go to that art museum, eh Grimes?”

\---

They take Daryl’s old Ford pick-up truck to the museum, which Daryl agrees was not the best choice to visit such a fancy destination with, but neither boy really cares. Daryl feels a little underdressed in his sleeveless AC/DC shirt and ripped jeans, but, again, he decided not caring was the best route before he even stepped foot into the building.

The museum was small, an old red and brown house tucked away between tall oak trees off the side of the main road. It was no wonder Daryl hadn’t known it existed, and he was beginning to question how Rick heard about it. It was free admission (although, a donation was encouraged), and the boys graciously took advantage of it, slipping through the doors.

Rick immediately glanced all around him, twisting his skinny body to look in all directions. Daryl stood quietly off to the side, choosing to lean against a pale beige wall while Rick decided which hallway to venture down first. People move around them like water flowing around stones, thankfully not eying Daryl cooly or stopping to snap at Rick. Finally, the boy chooses to go down the hallway labeled: “Van Gogh” with some other words in tiny print that Daryl wasn’t wasting his time reading.

Daryl is happy to see Rick chose the emptiest room.

There are just a few people in the exhibit: an older couple that brushes past them on the way out, and a younger looking man with a journal huddled in the corner. The room itself is wide and panoramic, large gray walls decorated with various pictures of flowers and landscapes. Daryl steps forward into the area; Rick waits, leaning on the doorway. Daryl’s footsteps echo quietly in the serene space as he walks in, straight towards a familiar painting. He fights the urge to reach out and brush his fingers over the raised textures of the blue and yellow swirls of “Starry Night”. The room is hauntingly quiet when he stands still.

“He’s the guy who cut off his ear, right?” Daryl asks, glancing back at Rick. The other boy snorts softly, and comes to stand beside Daryl. Their shoulders brush when Rick crosses his arms over his chest. He’s not looking at the painting, but, rather, at Daryl.

“Yes, well no,” Rick breathes. “Apparently he lost it in a knife fight, and then wrapped it up and gave it to a prostitute.”

Daryl scoffed. “Same.”

They exchanged a glance and laughed quietly, stepping away from the painting and continuing around the loop. Rick took pictures every now and then as he explained the different works and the stories behind them passionately. Daryl smiled all the way through, nodding his head in fake interest at first, but by the last painting, his brow was furrowed and his mind was eager. He didn’t know how it happened, but Daryl Dixon was actually interested in something that wasn’t weed, dogs, or Maggie Greene.

After about an hour circling around the Van Gogh works, the pair plops down on one of the benches in the center of the room, facing “Starry Night”. Rick hasn’t stopped smiling, Daryl thinks, watching the boy look at the painting. Daryl grins too, because why not, if Rick’s doing it?

“So he _didn’t_ cut it off himself?” Daryl asks, frowning mockingly. Rick laughs and shakes his head, beaming. “See, that’s a bummer, righ’ there.”

“Why?” Rick questions, his eyebrows raising.

“I totally thought the dude was a total badass,” Daryl sighs. He leans back, feeling the uneven back of the bench dig into his skin a bit uncomfortably. “But the fuckin’ pansy got it cut off in a knife fight.”

“At least he’s cool enough to have gotten in a knife fight.”

“Woah,” Daryl snaps back upright, jabbing a finger at Rick, who’s still smiling from ear to ear. “I could get into a knife fight.”

Rick laughs, “I’m sure you could.”

Daryl smirks and leans back again, closing his eyes peacefully. They sit there for hours, side by side, cracking jokes and telling stories, never leaving the Van Gogh room. They’d fall silent whenever someone new entered the exhibit, but slipped back into conversation when the people paid no attention to them. Daryl told stories about Merle; all the crazy things he’d done and how he got out of them. Rick countered them with tales of a boy back home named Shane, who sounded like Merle’s long lost twin.

At one point, Daryl pulls the leather back notebook out of his pocket, catching Rick’s eye. The curly haired boy’s expression brightened in utmost curiosity, and he questioned Daryl about it. Daryl shrugged and played it cool, saying he brought it everywhere in case he wanted to write something down. Rick pressed on, though, and Daryl eventually spilled that he wrote poetry and sketched in the small journal, which brightened Rick’s face even more.

The story behind the notebook was a cliche. Daryl found it amongst a box in his attic labeled “Mary’s shit”, and, although his bitterness towards his mother remained, he opened it anyway. The small journal was resting on the bottom with cigar boxes and cigarette ashes, covered in dust and stained with whiskey. It had nothing written in it, except on the inside cover, where something was scribbled out in Latin (which Hershel would identify later, when Daryl brought the journal over in curiosity). Daryl didn’t tell Rick all that, though. He settled for lying and saying he bought it at a store, and that the alcohol stains were from him. Rick believed him -- because why wouldn’t he -- and Daryl stays silent for a long time.

Rick starts talking again, about Van Gogh and some other artists. Daryl finds himself spacing out, observing the boy instead of actually listening to what he was saying. Rick’s eyes shone when he spoke, but he squinted a lot, which made it hard to see the blue colors. He used his hands a lot, gesturing and waving them around.

Eventually, the museum closes down and they’re ushered out, giggling at some story about Merle getting hammered and falling down the stairs. They hop into the truck, racing down the highway while Daryl blasts Bon Jovi as loud as he could out of the old speakers. The sun was sinking behind them, casting pastel pink and orange over the road. They’d never left the Van Gogh room.

It’s nine o’clock when Daryl pulls into Laurie Grimes’ drive way, turning down the music when he puts the car in park. Rick smiles up at the house in front of them, then turns to Daryl. Daryl meets his eye hesitantly, nervously letting his lips pull up into his lopsided grin. Rick holds out his hand.

“Thanks for the ride,” the boy says. Daryl slowly shakes his hand, opting to stare at his own fingers clasped close in Rick’s rather than Rick’s face

“Thanks for the opportunity.”

Rick laughs and pulls away, nodding when he shuts the door behind him. Daryl watches the boy’s silhouette in his headlights, his bowlegs and his long arms, the way he walks with a skip in his step. He waits until Rick’s in the house before turning the music up so it’s just barely audible, backing up out of the driveway and driving to Maggie’s.

Every so often, Daryl finds himself turning to the passenger seat to say something, only to be disappointed by the empty space beside him. The Dixon smiles sadly and turns back to the road, happy to see the lights of the Country Store in the distance. He pulls into the parking lot in front of the porch, shutting off his car and submerging himself just in the porch light.

Maggie’s asleep on the porch swing when Daryl walks up, curled up in a thin blanket with Atlanta’s head on her lap. They both startle awake when the stairs creak under Daryl’s weight, and suddenly Atlanta’s jumping up on his legs and Maggie’s arms are wrapped around his neck.

Daryl stoops first to pat Atlanta, wrinkling his nose against her assault of kisses to his face. He then stands up and faces Maggie who immediately throws herself on him again, burying her face in his neck. Daryl kisses her head, bending down to scoop her up again.

“How long have you been home?” Daryl asks, slipping inside. The store is empty except for Hershel, who’s closing up. They exchange nods of greeting, smiling to each other across the way.

“Since five,” Maggie yawns, tightening her grip on his shirt. Daryl dips his head and says nothing, carrying her through the back door and into the house, up the stairs, down the hall, and into her room. He throws her playfully onto the bed, laughing when Atlanta jumps up onto the girl.

“S’not so bad,” Daryl chuckles peeling off his shirt. Maggie shrugs and sits up, patting Atlanta happily. The dog licks Maggie’s face and presses her black body into her, begging for more attention. Daryl snorts and kicks off his shoes, tossing himself onto the bed and laying facing the ceiling. It’s early still, the light of day just fading behind the tall trees. Maggie curls up next to him.

“Beth told me you went to the museum with Rick,” she breathes, tapping at tattoo across his heart. Daryl got it for his sixteenth birthday, a gift from Merle. His older brother posed as Daryl’s father and got him approval, and the artist wrote _Atlanta_ in cursive above his heart. People thought it silly to have his dog’s name permanently across his heart, but Daryl had ultimately decided that if something was gonna last forever, it should mean something to him forever.

Daryl makes an _mhmm_ sound in his throat, running his fingers through his hair and running the other through Atlanta’s thick, ebony fur. He bites down on his lip to stop himself from smiling at the mention of the boy, angling his face away from Maggie.

“How was that?” she asks, stealing his attention back.

“It was fun,” Daryl doesn’t lie, adjusting himself and changing the subject. “How was yer date with Glenn?”

Maggie fails to hide her smile then, blushing and burying her face into her pillow. “It was fun,” she echoes him, embarrassment lacing her voice. Daryl snorts and decides not to pressure her then, but he made a mental note to do so the following morning.

“See?” Daryl laughs. “We can have fun without each other, we’re capable of it.”

“Yeah,” Maggie chuckles, closing her eyes.

Daryl watches her drift off until he does, too, dreaming of intricate brush strokes and starry nights.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly? idk


	4. Her Hair Was Long When He First Met Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: *stuffin' my face with waffle fries* its aesthetic .

Daryl finds himself humming Don Mclean’s _"Vincent"_ when he makes breakfast the following morning, spinning with the pan in one hand and Maggie’s fingers in the other. The bacon sizzled and popped on the stove when he dipped Maggie down, laughing when she slipped on the tiled floor. She was wearing knee-high black socks, and Daryl’s t-shirt on her was like a dress when he spun her around for the final time.

Maggie laughs and slides into her seat at the table next to Beth, throwing her arms around her little sister’s shoulders kissing her cheek. Beth scrunched up her nose and tapped at Maggie’s face with the back of her pen. She pushes away her notebook when Daryl lays a plate of waffles and bacon in front of her, smiling her thanks. Maggie steals a piece of her bacon and ducks away to avoid Beth’s swatting hands.

“What’s that song you’re singin’, Dare?” Beth asks when she finally fends off her sister. Maggie accepts a plate from Daryl and chows down, ignoring the conversation.

Daryl sits down across from them, stretching his bare chest in the sun creeping through the kitchen windows. “Dunno,” he says, yawning. “I forget,” he reaches into the pocket of his gray sweatpants, pulling out dog treats and tossing them in Atlanta’s general direction. He hears his dog’s claws frantically scrape across the floor in her haste to get the goodies.

Maggie’s humming her own tune to herself, some happy beat that sounded like it came right out of a sitcom. Daryl shot Beth a glance, raising his eyebrows and smiling around the fork in his mouth. Beth hid her own smile behind her delicate hands, turning her attention to the food in front of her. Daryl leans forward.

“Someone got laid yesterday,” he purrs, swinging his fork around in Maggie’s direction. The girl’s gaze shoots up, blinking.

“Yeah, that was me.” Maggie shrugged. “Not either of you, so who’s the winner here?”

The table fell silent.

\---

Maggie’s hair was long when Daryl first met her. They were five years old, and Daryl had been running away from the loud noises in his house when he tripped on a stone in the road. He’d fallen flat on his face, arms splayed out in front of him, legs kicked up in the air. His white cut off tank top was sure to have dust stains from the old dirt road, and his bony knees already stung from scrapes. Someone laughed above him.

Daryl looked up and saw a girl there, with long brown hair and a yellow sundress, holding the hand of a younger blonde girl. The blonde one looked concerned, but the brunette continued to laugh. Daryl pouted, sitting up in the dirt and blinking rapidly. His body ached from his fall and his hair was blown across his face.

“Y’shoudn’t laugh when people get hurt,” he whined, forgetting all about the manliness Merle forced down his throat. The girl stifled her laughter behind a chubby hand as she crouches down to Daryl’s level.

“Sorry,” she giggled, releasing the hand of the other girl. The blonde looked lost in that moment, hurriedly sitting down in the dirt next to the brunette. “Y’just looked so funny fallin’ over like that.”

Daryl frowns and furrows his eyebrows, jutting out his bottom lip. The bandaid that was already plastered on his cheek pulls uncomfortably when his face scrunches up. Both girls turn their heads to the side at the same time, studying him carefully. He shifts nervously under their stares, quickly looking down at the dirt below him rather than the pairs of bottle green and sky blue eyes.

“My names Maggie Greene,” the brunette suddenly says. Daryl looks up, his nose bumping into her outstretched hand. Daryl blinks at it when it comes into focus, slowly reaching out and placing his own within it. Even then, although they were both young and yet to scar, Daryl’s hands were rougher than hers. “This is Beth, my li’l sister.”

“Daryl Dixon.”

Maggie smiled down at him, and he didn’t think he’d seen something so beautiful. Even now, her smile lit up his world, and he wondered how he made it even five years without knowing her. Back then, the rock in the road at been an inconvenience, one that left scrapes on his knees so his mother questioned him and his father yelled at him, but in the long run, it’d been a blessing. Daryl didn’t believe much in fate or anything like that, but he did believe that if he hadn’t tripped on that rock, he would’ve never befriended Maggie. And what’s a preacher without their God?

\---

“Do you believe in unicorns, Daryl?” Maggie asks him one day, when he’s sprawled on the grass in the summer sun. The grass pokes at his skin where his shirt rides up, and there’s an annoying imbalance of warm and cold on each half of his body as he lays partially in the shade and partially in the sun. Maggie lies to his left, Atlanta on his right; Rick’s skipping stones across the lake. _One, two, three, splash._

“I’d like to believe so,” Daryl answers, stretching. He squeezes his eyes shut until colors dance behind his closes lids, never fully coming into focus. Rick stops throwing rocks, and Maggie turns her head to him, but no one bothers to question him. Theres a sluggish atmosphere the day takes on, dragging at their limbs and pounding into their heads. Daryl continues after a few moments, talking slow to find the right words. “It’s reassuring to think somethin’ as beautiful as that exists.”

“They’re like true love in that way,” Maggie hums, and both Daryl and Rick turn to her in confusion. Rick’s tossing a rock up and down, raising an eyebrow and dragging his gaze from Maggie, to Daryl, and back to Maggie. Daryl shrugs and rolls his eyes at the boy, lying back into the grass. “Everyone writes stories about them, but really they’re nothing like the ones in the fairy tales. Jus’ like true love.”

Daryl nods, understanding now. _They’re just horses_. He feels the feather-light steps of a grasshopper on his knee, the grass flatten out under his body, hears the sounds of birds in the oak above him. Atlanta whimpers in her dream, paws twitching as she chases after something in imaginary. Maggie closes her eyes and hums a song Daryl’s too tired to remember. Rick seems to understand as well, because he turns back towards the body of water, whipping the flat stone out of his hand. _One, two, three, four, five, splash._

\--

Daryl shows Rick his favorite hiking spot when the weather isn’t unbearably hot and Maggie’s out with Glenn. The old logging trail was once bustling with people and trucks and businesses of all kind, but had since become barren and overgrown. The trail leads right up the mountain, cutting through the forest in a winding, dusty path. Blackberry bushes lined the edges and streams trickled behind them, and certain sheltered places preserved footprints from animals that traveled the night before.

Atlanta sniffs at a deer print, her black tail arched over her back. Her long black legs were caked in mud, brown-gray stuck to the tips of her ebony fur.Daryl came up behind her and scratched at her ears, startling her. She trotted forward, making sure to stay a few paces in front of the boys.

“You guys come here often?” Rick pants, pausing with his one hand on his knee, using his other to block out the sun whilst he surveyed the trail in front of them. The dirt road sloped up into an almost ninety degree angle, heat waves visible in the summer heat.

“Used ta,” Daryl says, reaching for his canteen. He flipped it up, grateful for the still cold liquid trickling down his throat. Rick slaps at his arm and he passes it over, whipping the access water off his chin with the back of his hand. He’s transfixed in the way Rick’s Adam’s apple shifts with the act of drinking for a second before he continues. “’Til it became way to much of’a hassle ta climb all the way up here jus’ ta drink an’ smoke. Tha’s why we do it at the swimmin’ hole. No one gives a shit anyway.”

“Right,” Rick snorts, and they start walking again.

They reach the summit at sundown, when the flat mountain top is bathed in orange and golden light. The rays bounce off Rick’s curly hair and form shadows at their feet, turning Atlanta’s black pelt palomino. They stand on the edge, where the ground slopes back down the mountain-side, staring out over the tops of trees and houses. A river trickles somewhere in the shadows of the woods behind them, and the sky is coming alive with bats. Simplistic.

“Up here is where I saw a chupacabra,” Daryl sneers, side-eying Rick. They boy frowns back at him, waiting for an explanation. If what Daryl said scared him, it didn’t show. “Y’know, the creature.”

“I know what a chupacabra is,” Rick snorts, finding a part on the ground that was grassy and smooth rather than rock and uneven and sat down, patting the dirt beside him. Daryl sat down with a huff, cracking his knuckles. “I jus’ find it hard to believe that you’ve seen one.”

“You doubtin’ my word, Grimes?” Daryl says, feigning a broken heart. Rick laughs.

“No, no,” the boy assures, slapping a hand dramatically over his heart. “I would never,” Daryl rips out a handful of grass and throws it at Rick, the bits getting stuck in his slicked back curls.

They sit in comfortable silence then, watching the sunset and Atlanta sniff around the woods. They get talking about mythical creatures and faraway lands. They don’t bring up the chupacabra again. Not when they stumble down the star-lit path at midnight-- not when they curl up on Maggie’s porch swing in the warm summer’s breeze. Daryl knows he’ll remember it some day, when his memory is just starting to fail. He doesn’t worry about it, though. Perhaps their story is meant to be spoken of like an urban legend.

-

“Would you rather,” Rick starts, pausing mid-sentence to think. He leans back against the rock, tapping his chin with his long index finger. Daryl inhales smoke from the blunt, blinking slowly at the other boy. They’re sitting on the highest rocks at the swimming hole, the boulder and the pyramid-shaped one. Rick rests against the round surface of the boulder while Daryl and Maggie shape their bodies into the slanted sides of the other. Daryl passes Maggie the joint as Rick continues, “Lick the bottom of a hobo’s foot, or be hand-fed rotten fish from said hobo.”

Maggie throws her head back laughing while Daryl wrinkles up his nose and says, “Dude, you’re gross.”

Atlanta sneezes as if she agrees. Maggie mumbles _not answering that_ around the joint in her mouth and the rest of them agree, falling silent. It’s early morning, the sun hasn’t breached the horizon yet, the grass and rocks still damp from dew. Atlanta snores softly, curled in Daryl’s lap with her paws in the air.

“Would you rather,” Maggie says softly, yawning. “find the love of your life, or have free breadsticks whenever you want?”

“Breadsticks,” Rick and Daryl say at the same time, chuckling at each other. Maggie agrees, passing Rick the joint.

The sun rises slowly, bathing the rocks in pink and orange light. Birds begin singing, calling out to each other in tunes and pitches that soothe the kids more than the weed. The trees sway above them, casting penumbral light spots over the water and stones. A car drives slowly along the dirt road above them, loud and exotic in the early morning. The air is serene and their eyes are red and glazed over, their solo cups are stacked neatly on the rocks below them.

Daryl sighs and says, “Would you rather live a villain or die a hero?”

“We’re all villains here,” Maggie replies.

\--

They go back to Maggie’s house when the heat of the day starts attracting people to the swimming hole. None of them know exactly when they passed out, or who passed out first, but they woke up on the rocks with the sun beating down on their faces and their bones aching from the rocks beneath them. Daryl squints against the sun, yawning wide when they approach the parking lot in front of Maggie’s house. They all stop dead when they notice a crowd of angry teenagers out front.

Daryl starts running first, followed by Atlanta. His dog, who could easily pull ahead, stays at his pace until they skid to a halt in front of Abraham. Daryl pants, not saying anything, staring up at the taller, broader boy expectantly. Michonne is on one side of Abraham, her smooth, dark arms crossed over her chest, and Tara on the other, standing smaller and nervous in his shadow. Maggie slips up next to Daryl, holding her hand out against Rick’s chest, keeping him back a few feet.

“What’s goin’ on?” Daryl asks lowly, glancing around without turning his body or head. He registers Carol, the waitress, standing next to Michonne’s girlfriend, Andrea, both girls looking slightly nervous, but mostly pissed.

“Inside,” Michonne hisses, grabbing Daryl’s wrist and yanking him through the crowd. Maggie carefully places Rick in between her and Daryl, while Tara and Abraham follow up behind. They hop up the front stairs of the store, waving Andrea and Carol in, and shut the door behind them.

“Joe’s back,” Carol says before anyone else could open their mouth. Daryl tenses up, his whole body shooting up straight like a tightened cord, his heart pounding in the silent room. He barely, _barely_ registers Maggie’s sharp exhale, the way her dainty fingers wrap around his bicep. Rick steps back, glancing around the group of kids.

“Joe is...” Tara says, turning to Rick, her voice quiet, slow. She keeps one eye on Daryl like he was a cornered animal, cautiously continuing, “a kid who did some fucked up shit with his gang of douche-bags.” Daryl still doesn’t move, staring at the wall with his fists clenched. Atlanta whines at her boy’s feet, pressing her body into his.

“Raped girls,” Abraham continues, inspecting Daryl with the same level of discretion. Maggie recognizes this, pulling Daryl out of their circle. She drags him behind the display of penny candy, talking to him in a low voice. “Beat ‘em too. Owned up to it to everyone ‘cept the cops, and they couldn’t do nothin’ unless they did.”

“Daryl chased him out last summer,” Michonne continues, glancing nervously over at Maggie and Daryl. The boy is pacing now, his fists clenched at his side, Maggie holding her hands out to attempt to calm him. “Guess he decided to come back.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just so u all know: if ur confused by something (the unicorns) just know that it will surface again later in the fic and be explained further (and more heartbreaking), i promise


	5. They'll Fight, Come Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> daryl's cheek is blood-stained but his eyes are still bright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i only wrote this for atlanta and daryl

“I’m gonna kick his fucking ass,” Daryl hisses, kicking the door open and jumping off the porch. Atlanta’s shadowing him, leaping off the porch and landing besides her strung up owner in the dust. Maggie’s the first to follow him out, pushing through the door before it can close on her. Rick follows after with Abraham and Tara, his own anger forming into adrenaline.

“Daryl!” Maggie calls, her voice cracking. Daryl stops, glancing over his shoulder. The crowd’s indistinct conversation fades out and everyone turns, tension thickening the air. “You can’t.”

“Fuck you,” Daryl spits back, eyes hooded over and hair casting shadows over his handsome face. Rick remembers an old saying that said dogs and their owners looked alike, and he didn't believe it until now. Daryl was snarling, bristling, and Atlanta in his shadow was just as tense, baring her teeth for reasons she didn’t have other than Daryl’s own anger.

“Daryl, I can’t let you fight him,” Maggie begs, reaching forward. Daryl pulls back, growling low. “You’ll--”

“I’ll what?” he leans forward again, still not letting her touch him. “Get hurt? It’s a fight Maggie, I’ve gotten in, like, a million. I can handle him.”

“It’s not him who I’m worried about hurting you,” Maggie whispers, her voice so small Rick wonders if it was only meant for Daryl to hear. Daryl remains silent, muscles on his arms flexing as he stands still. Atlanta is pacing behind him, hackles raised. She snarls at the group, weaving in between Daryl’s legs protectively. “Daryl you can’t get in trouble with the cops again,” Maggie continues, pleading.

Daryl pulls back slowly, still fiercely angry. His brow is furrowed and his lips pull back in a snarl, all his defenses up. “I gotta fight him, Mags,” he breathes. “I can’t let him fuck up my town.”

“Daryl, this isn’t about your self proclaimed position as town protecter,” Maggie says, taking a step closer to the boy. Daryl tenses, taking a step back. Like a caged animal. “If your dad--”

“Fuck him too,” Daryl spats, not calming down or releasing the tension in his shoulders. “If he finds out, fine. The cops are lookin’ for a way ta bust his ass anyway,” the boy turns sharply, heading down the road, his dog following. The crowd uproars, some whooping and some groaning.

“Daryl, please,” Maggie begs again, but doesn’t attempt to follow him. He doesn't turn around.

* * *

 

When Maggie found out about Daryl’s father, she cried for an entire day. She pressed her lips to every single scar on his body, from the nicks on his knuckles to the scar under his eyelid. She vowed vengeance at the young age of nine, and Daryl wondered to this day if she even knew exactly what he was saying. Daryl had said, voice small partly with embarrassment and partly in fear that his father, who was passed out on the couch three houses up the street, would hear him: “My daddy hits me.”

After that day, Maggie never really mentioned it. But she did invite him to sleep over a lot more than she already did. Back then, before he knew for sure, Daryl figured she had told her father, because Hershel let him fall asleep on his lap a lot after that. Five years later, even, they let Daryl hide Atlanta in their home when his father gave him a scar under his jaw for bringing home the ash stained puppy.

Daryl hoped, though, that he’d never have to tell Rick about the origin of his scars. At the swimming hole that first day, when Rick questioned him about a scar on his shoulder blade, Daryl had settled for lying and saying it was a skateboard accident. He got a smile out of Rick when he mentioned skateboarding, and that alone was enough to live with himself.

* * *

 

Daryl stands in the parking lot of the country store, illuminated by the orange light of sunset. Atlanta sits in between his feet, her fur brushing his legs, her ears pricked. Uneven light patterns stained the ground, mixtures of faded light and penumbral shadows. Birds flock out of bushes and trees silently, porch and streetlights flicker on. Daryl hears the presence of the crowd behind him, feels Abraham come up behind him and place strong, calloused hands on his shoulders.

“You got this, brother,” the orange haired boy growls lowly, squeezing Daryl’s flesh. Daryl just nods, clenching his jaw and flexing his muscles. Adrenaline courses through his veins, white hot fire and the tingling feeling of his stomach turning over; he can barely feel the ache of his head pounding. The crowd shifts around them, teenagers anywhere from thirteen to early twenties lined up, obnoxiously sipping soda from straws or spitting sunflower seeds into the dirt.

Joe stands in front of him, his own gang of assholes shadowing him. He smirks at Daryl, opening up his arms in an all too welcoming invitation. The boy’s sandy blonde hair is slicked back, his cheeks stubbly from lack of shaving, his teeth crooked and yellow. He wears a leather jacket and torn, ashen jeans despite the heat, and every boy behind him matches him in attire in an almost hilariously cliche way. He even stands in a way that screams cocky asshole, his legs spread out and his back hunched over.

Daryl pulls out of Abrahams grip and lands the first punch to Joe’s greasy jaw, sending the older boy stumbling back a step. The crowd behind Daryl whoops, screeching loudly and pumping fists in the air. Joe recovers far too quickly, his knuckles grazing Daryl’s cheek before he can fully duck. Daryl trained himself to recover easily from a blow to the face, no matter how hard he was hit. Letting your guard down in a second in the house he grew up in was life or death. Daryl straightens himself up, smearing the blood dripping on his cheek around.

“Step away now, Daryl,” Joe chuckles, holding up his hands. “Y’don’t wanna do this.”

“Fuck you,” Daryl spats back, launching himself at the other. He crashes into his torso, sending them both tumbling down into the dirt. Behind the blood pounding in his ear, Daryl hears Abraham bellow something, just as Daryl’s fist slams back into Joe’s face.

The gangster counters quickly by punching Daryl hard enough in the side of his head to send him tumbling off. Daryl lets out a gasp when Joe delivers a kick to his ribs, rolling him over the uneven dirt parking lot. The breath is knocked out of him, the searing pain flourishing from his abs to the tips of his fingers. Two more kicks in the exact same spot and he is close to hurling, his vision spotting. Somewhere in the crowd Daryl makes out Maggie’s voice, manages to glance over and see Carol and Rosita holding her back from jumping right into the fight.

Daryl rolls to his side and groans, panicking slightly when his vision suddenly goes black, only to realize his line of sight is blocked out by Atlanta’s ebony body. His dog leans down, sniffing him frantically before pressing her nose under Daryl’s arm and nudging him up. Daryl growls, using his dog as leverage to stumble to his feet. Atlanta weaves around his body, pressing into his legs as support before he is lunging forward again.

Joe ducks out of the way, clipping Daryl in the jaw with his knuckles. One of his gold rings cuts into Daryl’s lip, and his mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood. Daryl spits, the red staining the ground at his feet. It doesn’t stop flowing, continuously dribbling out of his mouth. He growls, charging forward again, ducking out of the way of Joe’s fist.

He delivers a blow to Joe’s jaw, and the boy goes crashing into the dirt. Daryl leaps on him, pinning him down with his body weight and staring down, breathing heavily. Joe grimaces when Daryl’s blood slides off his lip and onto the other’s face. Daryl leans forward and grasps the older boy’s vest in his fists and yanks him up so they are nose to nose.

“I told ya not to come back,” Daryl hisses, and with each word more blood spits off his lips and drips off his forehead. He slams Joe back down into the dirt, punching him repeatedly. The boy’s hand closes around Daryl’s throat in a feeble attempt to push him off, but Daryl holds his own, cuffing him in the face three times before strong arms are bear-hugging him and pulling him off.

“Let go a’ me!” Daryl spits, writhing in Abraham’s grip. Joe’s gang is lifting the boy up, supporting his body until they reach their black pick up. They all pile in, and just as fast as they appeared they are gone, throwing lit cigarettes and middle fingers out the window at Daryl until they disappear for good.

“Ya won, brother,” Abraham grunts, voice close to Daryl’s ear. “Calm down, come back.”

Daryl’s head is throbbing and his muscles ache with adrenaline, his ears filled with the sounds of the crowd cheering and Atlanta barking. He’s suddenly hyperaware of the blood pooling out of his mouth and cheek, the bruises he feels forming on his ribs, the stinging of his split knuckles. Abraham holds on tight, locking Daryl’s arms to his side while he fights for his freedom, breathing heavily.

“Let him go,” a voice says, and Daryl tries to blink the blood and sweat out of his eyes to recognize the source. “Let him go!” it repeats, more violent and stern this time, and suddenly the pressure of arms around his chest is gone and Daryl’s stumbling into the dirt.

He looks up when familiar hands cup his cheeks and green eyes come into focus. “Maggie?” he chokes out, wincing as he moves his abdomen slightly to get closer to her.

“Yeah, hey look at me,” Maggie shushes, her voice losing all its previous venom. “Daryl? Hey-- No! Merl--”

Daryl’s ripped away from the soft body, thrown back harshly into the dirt. Rocks jab uncomfortably into his back and sides, dragging a whimper out of his lips. Another punch to the jaw and he’s being lifted off the ground by ash stained fists around his collar, face to face with his brother.

“The hell are you doin’, boy?” Merle growls, and Daryl’s stomach flips over. “I though’ I told ya, no more fights you fucking cow shit!”

“Merle, stop!” Maggie pleads, and Merle releases Daryl, dropping his body back to the ground. The older Dixon turns on her, but upon realizing who it is, his shoulders relax and his fists unclench. They still stand chest to chest, Maggie’s shoulders shaking when she goes to stand in between him and Daryl.

“What the fuck did we agree on?” Merle asks, jabbing a finger in Daryl’s direction. “Why did you let him fight!”

“You think I wanted him to?” Maggie says; her voice dripping with venomous disbelief. Merle seems to sense the tone because he backs off, stepping away and holding up his hands. Maggie relaxes, letting her hard exterior crack.

“Take him back to yer house,” the eldest Dixon says quietly, motioning to his brother. “Don’t let our daddy see ‘im.”

Maggie nods and Merle turns away, pushing through the now silent crowd and disappearing. Daryl tries stumbling to his feet, startling when he feels a warm, sturdy body pressed against his. Too big to be Maggie, too small to be Abraham.

Rick

“I know you prob’ly ain’t gonna believe me,” Rick breathes, his voice dangerously close to Daryl’s throat. Daryl groans and leans into him, letting his head lay limp on the boy’s shoulder. “But that was the best fight I’ve seen in a while.” Daryl chuckles weakly at Rick’s confession, coughing up more blood.

“Thanks, pretty boy,” Daryl says, and Rick laughs quietly. Daryl just barely makes out Maggie ushering them inside, the crowd being shoved back by Abraham and Atlanta circling their feet. The last thing he feels before he blacks out is Rick’s warm, achingly taunting body pressed into his.

* * *

 

When he wakes up, the sun is down completely and the country store is bathed in silver light. Rick had apparently dumped his body on the convenient couch, the boy in question sitting on a stool a few feet away from Daryl. Daryl groans and rolls over, shoulder stiff from sleeping in the same position for however long. Rick looks up from the magazine he was skimming through, gasping lightly.

“You’re awake!” he grins, leaning forward. His blue eyes shine brilliantly in the dark room, the pale light sharpening his handsome features.

It hurts to smirk, but the corner of Daryl’s mouth turns up anyway. “Mag-” his voice cuts out when he realizes it burns, the minor bruises from being choked aching. Rick’s brow furrows worriedly. He hands Daryl a glass of water.

“Here, drink,” Rick instructs, helping Daryl sit up. Daryl pants, gulping down the water despite the ache in his muscles. Rick watches him with one eye while he calls over his shoulder, “Maggie! He’s up!”

Daryl swallows the last of his water, and some of it dribbles down his cheek from chuckling when he hears clamor and swears. Maggie slides up behind Rick, pushing forward and falling to her knees in front of the couch. Daryl grins at her, and she laughs in relief. Her hair is in disarray, her eyes frantic, but she’s smiling.

“Welcome back,” Maggie says quietly. Gentle hands softly brush Daryl’s hair out of his eyes. “’m still mad at you, don’t be fooled.”

“Right,” Daryl chuckles. He can see it in her eyes, the hesitance in talking to him. They will fight come morning, that he knows, but for now they aren’t, and that is fine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first of so many fights


	6. Dragonflies on Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl snorts, “My dad would kill me anyway.” 
> 
> Rick’s smile falters. “Well, you’re still kicking, it looks like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, self beta'd so probably a lot of mistakes.

Daryl winces, squeezing his eyes shut when Maggie goes apply more disinfectant onto the cuts on his face. She pauses, cotton swab poised a centimeter away from the wound on his cheek. Peeling open his eyes, Daryl meets her green gaze, and the girl sighs in defeat. Pulling her hand away, Maggie shoots out of her chair and takes the first aid kit with her.

“Mags--” Daryl attempts, but is cut off by the furious Greene.

“I told you not to fight him, Daryl,” she hisses, throwing her hands up in the air. She leans against the counter, using the table Daryl was sitting at the other end of as a barrier between them. Daryl opens his mouth again, but she shoots forward before he can defend himself and slams her hands down on the table. “You can’t keep gettin’ in trouble with the cops. If your dad finds out--”

“Why the fuck do you even care if he finds out,” Daryl spats, standing up to match her height. He leans across the table, snarling inches away from her face. Maggie’s hard exterior melts away, and her tough features melt into a sob. Daryl pulls back like he’s been shot, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He circles around the table, pulling out a chair and sitting down in it heavily. Maggie cries into her hand, wrapping her arms around her body, shoulders heaving. Daryl opens his arms, and she gravitates to him, slowly sitting on his lap, pressing her face into his shoulder, still crying. He hugs her, feeling her tears soak into his shirt and skin, and sighs.

“’m sorry,” Daryl whispers, pressing his lips into her shoulder, tightening his grip on her small body. She nods frantically, pulling her hand away from her mouth and letting it rest on Daryl’s jaw line. He trails his fingers up her back until she calms down, left sniffling into his neck.

“Me too,” Maggie breathes, pulling back and cupping his face. He grins up at her, crooked smile and scratched up face, and she chuckles. She leans forward, pressing her lips to his forehead, right above to the cut atop his eye. “You gotta be careful though. I worry about you.”

“I know, I will.”

“Good,” she slides off his lap, wiping at her eyes. Pushing her hair behind her ears, she continues. “I’m spending the day with Glenn, okay?”

Daryl’s face falls. “What?”

Maggie smiles sympathetically, “Yeah, we made plans.”

Daryl nods, glancing at the clock. It was eleven in the morning, and Beth and Hershel had already left for the day, avoiding the argument they were sure Maggie and Daryl were going to have. After Rick left last night, Maggie had refused to even look at Daryl, her mood shifting entirely. She also refused to let him go home, though, so he curled up on the couch in the country store in spite of her. Maggie lets it happen, explaining the situation to her sister and father when they felt it was safe enough to ask.

Daryl was glad the fight was short this time.

“I’ll go find Rick,” Daryl yawns, stretching his arms above his head. Maggie nods, still looking wary. Daryl offers a smile, standing up and hugging her. “Have fun, and don’t do anything stupid,” he says, pulling back and grabbing both of her shoulders. She giggles and nods. “I’ll see you later,” he kisses her head and strides to the door, grabbing the red bandana off the floor. Atlanta jumps to her feet from under the table, rushing to his side.

“Love you!” Maggie calls after him. He waves in reply, opening the side door and hopping down the steps.

It was hot as all hell, the humidity suffocating within seconds. Daryl quickly pushed his long hair back with the still bloody bandana, sweat already forming on his forehead. Shaking his head, he set off in the direction of the swimming hole, hurry to seek coverage in the shade of the trees. Atlanta stays with him the whole time, too hot to bother running off.

Daryl didn’t even get down the path before he heard Rick call out to him from behind him. He twisted, impulsively smiling when he sees the boy jogging towards him. Daryl waits at the tree line, leaning against an oak.

“Hey,” Rick pants, dressed in a white button up and khaki shorts. Daryl feels a moment of embarrassment, remembering that he was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, but it passes the second Rick smiles. “Mags said you were looking for me?”

“Yo, and yeah,” Daryl grins, lopsided. “She’s spendin’ the day with Glenn, so yer stuck wit’ me.”

“Thats fine,” the boy says, a little breathlessly. “How are you feeling?” the boy gives him a once over, eyes scanning the cuts on Daryl’s face.

“Fine,” Daryl yawns, wincing a bit at how the action shifts at his bruised abdomen. Rick raises questioning eyebrows, eyes traveling down Daryl’s torso. Daryl shifts a bit, and Rick’s gaze casts away.

“So what’dya wanna do?”

Daryl shrugs, pulling out his cigarette pack and lighter from his pocket. He frowns at the remaining two, then becomes hyper aware of Rick staring at him. With a grunt, he pulls out his last two, and offers one out to Rick. While Rick hesitates, Daryl lights his own, raising a challenging eyebrow. The other boy frowns, then awkwardly accepts the cigarette, holding it out for Daryl to light. Rick’s pink lips wrap around the thin cigarette, and Daryl tenses.

_Well, fuck._

Rick coughs immediately, ripping the cigarette away from his mouth. Daryl’s broken from his trance, and reaches out to hit him on the back. When Rick calms down, Daryl pulls away, his fingers lingering a little too long, trailing down his back and slipping off his slim hip. Rick goes rigid under Daryl’s touch, looking at the other boy from beneath his lashes. Daryl quickly stepped back, clearing his throat and bringing his thumbnail to his mouth, avoiding eye contact. Rick gently takes another drag.

“This shit sucks,” he manages a smile, snubbing the cigarette out with the heel of his shoes. Daryl chuckles, kicking at the dust. “My dad would kill me if he knew I did that,” Rick mumbles, smile crooked.

Daryl knows how he feels, the strange rush of wrong the first time you bring a cigarette to your virgin lips. He still remembers the first time he smoked, although it was years ago and hazed over by the many cigarettes and blunts to come. He’d stolen Merle’s pack, meeting Maggie and Abraham at the swimming hole one night. He had light the cigarette, and knowing he was being carefully judged by his friends, he brought it to his eleven year old mouth. It was disgusting. Maggie and Abraham tried it as well and wholeheartedly agreed.

Daryl spent the rest of the night worried sick that Merle was gonna find him and beat the smoke out of him, even though he quickly put out the cigarette and hid the package in a crevice between two rocks. Granted, that never happened, but as Daryl would later come to know, Merle knew all along. His older brother had seen him take (and try) the cigarettes, and got a good laugh out of his reaction. The disgust on the youngest Dixon’s face was payment enough for Merle to buy a different pack. The one Daryl hid was eventually sought out and used up as the kids grew older and more rebellious.

As humorous as the boys found the situation, they never told their father. It was too risky; he was too unpredictable.

Daryl snorts, “My dad would kill me anyway.”

Rick’s smile falters. “Well, you’re still kicking, it looks like,” the boy settles to say, an uncomfortable tinge in his voice. Daryl nods, bringing his own cigarette back up to his mouth. They fall into a comfortable silence, both opting to watch Atlanta rather than each other, until Daryl finishes his cigarette.

They stare down the hill for a while, watching the distant shapes of teens and kids jumping into the water, listening to their muffled screeches and laughs. Atlanta lays comfortably in the shade, focusing intently on a grasshopper that had hoped onto her paw. The sun beats down with the heat of noontime, the unmistakable sounds of mothers calling their children in for lunch and siblings begging for change to buy penny candy. It was starting to feel like summer.

“You, uh, wanna go to the park?” Rick suddenly asks, and Daryl can’t help but crack a smile.

“Sure, we can get some food, le’s go to the store?” Daryl decides ultimately that whatever shitty thing could happen to him that day would be worth it, because Rick’s face lit up in the most beautiful way. Daryl ducks his head, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. He hands Rick a five dollar bill. “Knock yourself out.”

They head back to Maggie’s house, up the front stairs and push open the store door. Beth was at the counter, talking to a cute boy with curly blonde hair. They wave when Rick and Daryl enter, and the pair wave back. They strolled down the candy aisle, and everything Daryl so much as glances at, Rick snatches quickly.

“D-dude,” Daryl chokes out. “What are you doin’ man I only got five bucks?”

“My treat, kay?” Rick grins wild. He reaches around Daryl to the coolers, grabbing two Cokes. “For the cigarette, ain’t those things like ten bucks?”

Daryl was ready to protest again, but he ultimately decides that his pride is enough of a sacrifice to keep that smile on Rick’s face. He opts to stay silent, following Rick around the store while the boy grabs soda, chips, and candy, bubbly and happy. Every now and then, Rick grins at Daryl over his shoulder, and while they stand at the register, making small talk while Beth rings their stuff up, Daryl faces the sick reality.

_I want to fuckin’ kiss him, right here in the Country Store._

_I’m so screwed._

\--

Daryl met Atlanta three years ago. She was born from a breeder, a round old dude with a handlebar mustache and beer belly jutting out of his wife beater. He smoked two cartons of cigarettes a day and bred German Shepherds, specifically all black ones. Daryl was never particularly fond of him, as he smoked around his dogs and only really used them for the money. Although he never had any evidence of it, Daryl was sure they were treated poorly, and all the money he made off his puppies went to more and more packs of cigarettes.

So, when the dude’s house burned down from cigarette ashes, Daryl found it almost laughably ironic (except, he didn’t laugh, because that’s exactly how his mother died only a few years back, at the time).

The litter was only two months old, and all of them, including the mother died, except Atlanta. She was the sole survivor of the fire, as even the breeder met his ashy end that night. The firefighters found her amongst the wreckage, half dead, and dumped her in the nearest passerby’s arms arms. Whether it was fate or some other bullshit working with them, that happened to be Daryl.

When the firefighters told him hours later that the pup was going to be sent to the pound, Daryl’s stomach had flipped. Even at the naive age of fourteen, he was fully aware of the horrible way of life pounds provided. So, he lied and said he had a home for her. Truthfully, he did. Just not a welcoming roof or warm, comfy bed. He did, though, have a home in his heart for the tiny, whimpering bundle in his arms. So, he kept her; he hid her from his father for a long time, until he began living with the Greene’s most of the time, and Atlanta’s personality blossomed.

Daryl could usually tell a lot about how he was going to feel about a person based on how much Atlanta liked them, and Atlanta really loved Rick.

\--

After they pay, and Beth announces that she’s keeping Atlanta with her for company, they boys make their way to the park, closer than normal. Their hands brushed every now and then, but they never mentioned it.The sun beat down on their shoulders and the Rick was talking about his favorite TV show, his face bright and voice excited, just like when they were at the museum.

Daryl notices wildflowers, and stoops to pick them, mumbling, “For Mags,” when Rick raises an eyebrow. Rick chuckles.

“I thought they were for me for a second.”

Daryl blinks, and straightens up, handing the makeshift bouquet over. Rick blushes, choking out a laugh.

“No, man, aren’t they for Maggie?” Rick mumbles, fumbling with the bags. Daryl shakes his head slowly.

“Nah, man, she has Glenn for that, right?” he chuckles awkwardly, shifting on his feet. Rick’s watching him, holding the flowers and the bags, his curly hair a wild mess and his blue eyes curious. Daryl panics, looking for means of escape, and in a fit of his own anxiety, he starts running toward the swings, calling out, “Beat ya there.”

Rick looks shocked for a moment, but then drops all their stuff in a haste and tears off after Daryl. They both race toward the one good swing, and crash into each other, falling back into the wood chips, laughing with tears in the corners of their eyes. They lay on their backs, panting until the throbbing in their bodies fades, and they’re left feeling nothing but sedated happiness.

“Do y’see the dragon in the clouds?” Rick breathes in between pants, shifting closer to Daryl and pointing a finger up at the sky. Daryl nods slowly, not sure if he can actually see it, or if he’s just happy enough to agree with whatever Rick says.

They fall silent again.

Daryl glances over at the other boy again, the way his eyes were focused on the sky, the blue color dancing with shadows and reflections, and there’s a pull at his heart.

_God, I want to kiss him._

Daryl props himself up on his elbow at the same time Rick turns his head to him. Daryl smiles down at Rick, and he realizes at that moment, he wants to die, because if he can’t live every moment like this, he’s not sure he wants to live.

Their eyes lock, and Daryl’s leaning down subconsciously and Rick’s yearning up. Their lips brush, the faintest of touches, a tiny breeze threatening to break it apart. Rick chuckles once, a tiny puff of air against Daryl’s lips, and Daryl crashes their lips together.

Suddenly, all at once, Rick’s hands are in his hair, and the pressure of the kiss is returned. Daryl traces Rick’s bottom lip with his tongue, moaning softly when Rick’s lip part. The boy below him is arching up, moving his lips against Daryl’s sloppily and their teeth and tongues clash, but Daryl wouldn’t have it any other damn way. Their noses bump together awkwardly at some point, and the little giggle Rick lets out melts Daryl’s cold soul into a puddle. They break apart, and Rick’s cupping Daryl’s face, tracing his jawline soft like dragonflies on water and pressing their foreheads together, chuckling breathlessly.

“Cool,” Rick breathes, and Daryl can breathe again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "cool" me too rick


	7. Between the Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl reflects on memories and Rick decides that reading between the lines just isn't his thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self Beta'd again, hopefully there aren't too many blaring mistakes. If there are I'll fix them later like usual, lmao

Daryl’s first kiss was not a memorable experience, but he remembers it nonetheless. Twelve years old with his long, wet hair sticking to his forehead, Daryl had shown off his skills at the swimming hole to a group of tourists. The family had gasped and cheered when he backflipped off the tallest rock, grinning like a shark. He was always competitive in that way; whenever a group of campers or non-locals passed through, Daryl took the chance to prove is ‘dominance’ amongst the people. To him, way back then and even now, he was the king of the swimming hole, and everyone had to know it.

When he broke the surface of the water, flipping his hair out of his eyes and smirking, the youngest daughter, aged twelve as well, swam over to him and pecked him on the lips. While the crowd occupying the rocks and the water whooped and laughed, Daryl was dumbfounded. Never before had he ever witnessed, nor experienced something like that. His mother died when he was ten, and even before her and Daryl's father were not the most affectionate couple. No, they communicated through screaming and slamming doors. Even when Hershel kissed his wife on the cheek Daryl was confused. Kissing and affection were a lost culture to him.

He still remembers the look on Maggie's face that day. His best friend had been what could only be described as furious and went home immediately. When Daryl found her later, curled up in a blanket sitting on her roof as the sun went down, he learned that she wasn't jealous of the girl kissing Daryl, but afraid. Maggie said she expected Daryl to run off and marry the girl and forget all about her. Daryl had laughed out loud, throwing his body on hers in a gangly, skin-and-bone hug.

Daryl remembers how silly he thought she was being back then, but he knows the fear now, every time she kisses Glenn. Watching your best friend fall in love can be a beautiful thing, but only if you’re not left behind in the process.

\---

“I’m not gay,” Rick says, sitting in the wood chips a few feet away from Daryl, hugging his knees to his chest. His hair is messier than usual and his eyes are nervous and darting around, focusing on everything and anything other than Daryl. Daryl looks up from studying the ground, shooting cornflower blue daggers at the puffy, red state of Rick’s post-kiss lips.

“Then what was _that_ ,” Daryl hisses, shifting his weight onto his other foot. He remains leaning against the tree, arms folded across his chest, standing rather than sitting to place himself above Rick’s power. The other boy opens his mouth to say something, then snaps it shut again when Daryl scoffs and shakes his head. Dirty blond hair fell in front of his eyes and he angles, blocking Rick out.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Rick whispers, voice so small and fragile that Daryl was wondering if he was meant to hear it in the first place. Daryl slowly glances up again, letting his eyes study Rick for a moment before dipping his head, shifting to face the boy and waiting for him to speak.

“I’m not gay,” Rick repeats, slower this time, like he’s trying the words on for size. Daryl snorts again, rolling his eyes. Rick frowns and soldiers on, making his voice firmer. “But _this--,_ ” he makes some gesture with his hand, “this is different.”

Daryl leans forward a little bit, narrowing his eyes. “What does tha’ mean?”

"It means," Rick sighs, running his hand through his hair. "It means I like you, a lot--" Daryl leans forward, almost falling back to the ground and embracing him, but he continues, "but I need some time to figure this out."

Daryl pulls back like he was a dog yanked by a chain. Rick looks at him warily, like he was expecting Daryl to explode on him for no reason. Daryl sighs and leans back again, nodding.

“I get that,” he says, pushing off the tree and starting off walking.

“Wait!” Rick calls after him, scrambling to his feet. Daryl turns sharply, just recognizing Rick’s approaching figure before his back is against a tree and Rick’s tongue is down his throat.

Daryl stiffens for a fleeting second, trying to process what the hell just happened, but it's only a moment before he's returning pressure, just the slightest. Rick kisses him, and it's nothing like the first time. No, it's filled with passion and all the words they couldn't say out loud. All the words Rick just contradicted. Suddenly, as if Rick flipped a switch, the kiss softened, until, by the natural slip of lips, they broke apart.

“I want to be with you,” Rick hums, pulling back and staring Daryl in the eye. “but we have to keep it a secret, just until I figure everything out--”

Daryl slips out. "Yeah," he says, holding out his hands. Rick's frowning, reaching for him. Daryl avoids his reach, stepping back. It takes all the strength Daryl has to ignore his want to wrap his arms around Rick's smaller body. "I get it. Hit me up when yer done figurin' shit out."

He starts walking away again, and this time Rick lets him go.

* * *

Daryl's first boyfriend was a blond boy with mocha brown eyes, long lashes, and big aspirations. He'd push his long locks out of his eyes, grinning wide when Daryl would walk up to him. He was far more privileged than Daryl; his family owned one of the nicer houses in town, and his father was an honorable professor. He was older, too, by one year. But he loved Daryl anyway, for god knows what reason.

But Jesse had dreams, dreams that took him out of the small town when he turned eighteen. Daryl still remembers listening to Jesse talk about his band making it big, sitting in the coffee shop after he came off the stage during open mic night, guitar still held tight in his grip. He was handsome like this, bright eyes and hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, smiling wider than Daryl had ever seen.

When he left, Daryl’s world momentarily shut down. Maggie brought him back, Atlanta too, and up until Rick stepped through the front door of the country store, he didn’t think he’d be broken again. But he remembers eyes that bright and hair that curly, but he also remembers the pain that came with it.

He’s prepared to bleed again, if not for the times he rests.

* * *

When Rick goes to find Daryl a few hours later, he’s not with Maggie. The girl in question is pacing the front porch, nervously chewing on a nail in a way that reminds Rick instantly of Daryl. He’s lead to wondering for a moment if Maggie got the habit from Daryl, or vice versa. His petty thoughts are interrupted when Maggie sees him and comes flying down the stairs, running up to him frantically.

"Where's Daryl?" she asks as if she knows something's wrong, and maybe she does. Rick pinches the bridge of his nose, his body still worked up on adrenaline from their kiss.

“I was gonna ask you that,” Rick admits quietly, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyelids.

Maggie’s silent for a moment before saying, “Atlanta ran off, which means she saw or heard him and went looking for him,” Rick’s not entirely sure if she’s talking to him or herself, but he remains quiet either way. All he could think of was how much he fucked up, letting Daryl walk away like that. But Rick knew he was being reasonable; Daryl was just upset.

“Swimming hole,” Maggie suddenly says, and Rick looks up.

“What?”

"He'll be at the swimming hole," the girl clarifies, grabbing Rick's hand and dragging him down the road. Rick blinks, wondering why he didn't think to check there sooner. He pulls his hand free and jogs alongside her, off the main road and down the dirt one, past Daryl's house and down through the path. Maggie turns away from the river and jogs parallel to it, down another path and out onto a rock Rick had only seen from the water itself.

There were three rocks, one after another, a second, smaller yet more dangerous looking waterfall in-between them. Maggie spares him one glance over her shoulder before jumping over the water to the rock in the middle, and then over again to the much bigger boulder looking over the swimming hole. Rick follows suit until he was standing next to Maggie, overlooking the swimming hole.

It was crowded, but like Rick predicted, it was easy to find Daryl. He was a few yards away from them, standing sturdy in the rushing current right before it slipped down the water slide. He was holding out his hand to a young girl who was standing on their side of the river, clinging to the rock Maggie and Rick were on. Atlanta stands on the opposite bank, behind Daryl, tail wagging while a boy just a little bit older than the girl rests his hand on her back like an armrest.

"C'mere sweetheart," Daryl coos gently, and if he noticed Rick and Maggie, he didn't acknowledge them. "Ya ain't gonna fall, I promise," the little girl whimpers, and Daryl takes a dangerous step closer to her, the current pulling at his legs. "I got yer brother across just fine, right?"

The girl nods, tentatively reaching out her hand and fitting it with Daryl’s much larger ones.Daryl leans forward and wrapped one strong arm around the girl and heaving her up. He twists his body, careful not to move his feet in the current, and plops her down on the other side of the river next to Atlanta. The little girl stumbles a little, giggling when Atlanta sticks her nose out to catch her.

“Told ya,” Daryl smirks, carefully turning to face the two kids. They say their thanks in unison, giving Atlanta one last pat and turning, skipping down to the water. “Careful!” Daryl calls after them. “Don’t run; it’s slippery!” the kids abide by his chastise and slow down, taking turns jumping down the lower rocks into the water.

"Daryl!" Maggie finally calls out when Daryl got to the other side with Atlanta. The boy looks up, but he didn't look surprised to see them. He just waves, hopping up on the highest boulder with his dog and leaning against the pointed rock. The way the two fit into each other made a perfect seat; the boulder in front of the slant in the other rock so you could lean against it and put your feet up, completely bathed in sunlight.

“C’mon,” Rick says quietly, sliding off the rock and into the water. Quickly they slither through the current atop the waterfall. If they slip, they wouldn’t necessarily die, but it’d be pretty unfortunate. Rick hangs back a little when Maggie leaps up the boulder to sit in front of Daryl, shifting his feet and glancing down at the water.

“Hey,” he hears Maggie say softly, voice drowned out by the background noises of water rushing and kids screaming. Daryl returns the greeting. “How was your day?” At that, Rick turns and stares at Daryl casually, heaving himself up onto the rock next to Maggie.

Daryl shrugs and yawns. “Pretty uneventful,” the boy pauses for a moment, rubbing his hand down his jawline. Rick can’t help but trace the movement with his eyes, mouth drying. Daryl continues with a gleam in his eyes just for Rick. “Pretty good, I guess.”

Maggie accepts the answer without questioning anything, and the two go on to talk about Maggie's day with Glenn. Rick's brow furrows when he realizes he has yet to meet Maggie's summertime sweetheart, but he doesn't bother interrupting to say his piece. He realizes not for the first time that the calm murmur between the two, with the background cadence of Atlanta snoring or panting, is calming to him. With the lack of input to the conversation, Rick gets to thinking.

Either Daryl is a really good actor, and he is just pretending nothing happened between them today, or he was being a complete asshole and ignoring Rick. After the conversation ends, Daryl goes back to acting like he doesn’t see Rick; he jumps into the water right when Rick joins him on a rock, or sparks up a conversation with someone when Rick greets him.

_Yup, definitely being an ass._

Then, when Daryl is spread out on a rock talking to an old man, Rick realizes the fault in his study. Daryl is smiling at his company, nodding along to the stories the man was saying. Rick listening too, all the while feeling extremely guilty about his assumption. Right when the story-teller finishes his nostalgic story about how he got the scar on his bare head (jumping off a rock at the swimming hole and landing wrong), Rick understood completely.

Daryl isn’t being an ass or pretending nothing happened, he is abiding by Rick’s wish to keep it a secret. Rick smiles softly when Daryl catches his eye, and Daryl returns it. They coin their attention back on the man after that, listening to all his old stories in the town with bright eyes and eager ears. The man eventually leaves, wandering off to go share tales with some other people, and Rick and Daryl are left alone.

“Thought you were jus’ bein’ an ass, to be honest,” Rick admits after a few moments of comfortable silence. Daryl nods, eyes glued on Maggie and Atlanta in the water.

“I figured,” the boy replies, turning his head and smiling softly at Rick. He wasn’t smirking or sneering like usual, but a closed mouth smile and furrowed blonde brows. The tender visage on the boy’s usually hard face is foreign to Rick, but welcome. 

“Whenever yer ready, pretty boy,” Daryl says, leaning back against the rock. He’s bathed in the warm light of sunset, the colors dancing off the flat plane of his chest and turning the back ink above his heart orange. He looks gorgeous. “I’ll be waitin’”


	8. Strawberry Smirnoff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, sorry I haven't updated this fic in forever. I lost my love for it for a while, which really depressed me because I have huge plans for this, but upon finding said plans in my backpack and reading through them, with the added aid of the new Andy/Norman photo shoot, I got inspired to continue it! This chapter was originally way shorter and way weirder, but I went back and edited and edited, and here we are! Hopefully I can get back in the groove of posting weekly again!

Daryl and Maggie’s first party was the last day before freshman year, in a barn on the top of a street lacking streetlights, one that twisted and curved up a hill, closer and closer to the sky. Trees closed around them, almost blocking out the stars. There had been no lights outside the barn, minus two candles at the entrance. Inside, the walls spoke Picasso with vibrant strobe lights and thundering bass. Daryl had hovered outside, arms dangling at his side, watching Maggie blacken into a silhouette as she stood in front of the barn.

“There’s no way this is gonna go well,” Daryl remarks, not entirely meaning to speak aloud. Maggie turned the heels of her Doc Martens, skirt following in a flow.

“So?” she had questions. She’d never been the risk taker. Maggie Greene wore sundresses down to her knees some days and black skinny jeans others; her brown hair could go from brushing her shoulder blades to cropped short and tucked behind her ears in a matter of a few hours if she got bored enough. She was five-foot-four-inches in high school, her legs were long and smooth and her curves were delicate, and she never was a risk taker. Daryl was the polar opposite of his best friend; he wore the same variation of one outfit every year, and his dirty blonde hair had been down to his shoulders since his mother died, and risk taking was his favorite pass time.

Daryl levels his gaze with hers, piercing blue clashing with fern-green. Then Abraham comes up behind him and sweeps them along, a river of lost innocence. The alcohol burned throats and cigarettes claimed smoke-tainted lungs that night.

It was that night that two boys watched from a dimly lit corner of the barn, red solo cups in hand and several crushed, used ones scattered by their feet, watching. They watched as, on more than one occasion, teenagers vomited or shouted or tripped over their own feet. The old over head beams of the barn shook in tune with the bass-heavy music, that became quieter the more you listened to it -- if you were getting used to it or going deaf, you had little luck on finding out.

“Are parties always like this?” Daryl shouts over the roar to Tyreese, flinching when two boys locked in what looked to be a fight to the death went tumbling past them. Tyreese shrugged, looking paler than Daryl’d ever seen him; he was standing much more rigid than Daryl, calculable no doubt by the significant gap in how much they’ve drunk by now. Daryl makes a mental note to never invite him to a party unless he really wanted to. Ty would later thank him for that, a kindness Daryl would brush off with a light punch to the shoulder.

“Are all teenagers like this?” Tyreese shoots back, visually becoming increasingly more nervous when some unknown voice shouts _“I’m gonna fucking kill you!”_ from somewhere in the crowd of bodies. Daryl snorts sympathetically.

“We’ll prob’ly be like this in’a few years, y’think?”

“ _You_ might,” Tyreese says, raising his eyebrows. Daryl takes no offense from the sentence, especially when he continues. “I won’t. Not my scene.”

Daryl nods slowly, tips his red solo cup back up and lets piss-warm alcohol pour down his throat. He wipes it off his chin with his bare wrist just as Maggie makes her way towards them through the crowd, Sasha at her side. Sasha shares nothing but a nod with Daryl before dragging her brother away, Maggie filling the empty space at Daryl’s side. Her make up is running and her hair is a tangled mess, but she’s still beautiful in the strobe lights.

“If I ever found out Bethy was at one’a these,” Maggie calls above the music. “I’d beat her pigtails into her throat.”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “But its okay for us t’be here?”

Maggie giggles and ducks her head, hips swaying to the music. She had no answer for him, and never would, not even far in the future. If Beth was to be in such a place when she was older, never minding how she played with dolls and braided hair, Daryl hoped she’d be more like Tyreese than himself or Maggie.

The barn burned down a few years later.

\--

Abraham said it could be considered a national crime that they hadn’t had a party yet. The gang wholeheartedly agreed, sprawling out on the sun-warmed rocks. They had, unfortunately, run out of weed sometime earlier in the day, and their high was wearing off along with their motivation to do anything. Rosita, who Daryl now notices sits a little closer to Tara every day, offers up her house.

“My parents are gonna be gone anyway,” the girl explains when questioned. The group whoops happily, and Rosita smiles. She was a gorgeous girl, even Daryl could admit that, although he preferred hard edges to soft curves. Once, before they became friends and before she got with Abraham, they fooled around at one of her other parties. The gang liked to joke about that even now, the time seeming so far away, as it was back when Daryl fooled around with everyone just for money. But he never went all the way, but back then money was money. They were all just glad that he’d moved on from that phase.

“Sounds good, Rose,” Daryl slurs, stretching his arms above his head. His elbow bumped Rick’s shoulder on the way down, and the boy smirked at him nonchalantly. Daryl paid no mind to the upturn of those pink lips. “What time?”

“Whenever the fuck you wanna show up.”

“Yeah,” Daryl grins, ecstatic. He hops to his feet, Maggie, Atlanta, and Rick reluctantly following him up. They wave goodbye as the rest of the group stands, stretching and yawning or cracking backs.

“Oi Mags,” Carol suddenly calls, and the trio turns around. “You gonna bring Glenn?” Everyone turns to Maggie, eyes raised challengingly.

“Wh- I,” Maggie stammers, blushing dark red. Daryl nudges her happily, grin spread from ear to ear. “He’s not really a party person!” she tries, but no one buys it. They remain silent and expecting, even Rick pins her with a shark-like grin. Maggie deflates. “Fine, I’ll bring him,” They cheer, but she cuts them off. “But I swear to God if any of you ruin this for me I’ll hang your testicles and tits on my fuckin’ wall.”

\--

It was midnight and Daryl’s in the middle of trying to tame his hair when there's a knock on Maggie’s bathroom door. He turns away from the mirror, hands frozen with two clumps of hair between his fingers. He was wearing a black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and all black jeans: his usual attire. He blinks slowly, figuring it to be Maggie, but they don’t just walk in, so he crosses her off the list of suspects.

“Yeah?” he calls out, letting his hands fall to his side.

“Its Rick,” Rick says, and even through the muffling door, Daryl could tell he was smiling. Daryl grins.

“C’mon in,” Daryl calls back, and the door opens quickly. Rick slips in, clad in a tight white t-shirt and gray jeans that fit him like a second layer of skin. Daryl’s mouth went dry, and Rick hurriedly shuts the door behind him. Before either of them even bothered saying a quick hello, Rick’s back was slammed against the door.

“Ah, Daryl,” the boy groans, and Daryl pulls back in confusion. “Doorknob,” Rick explains, laughing. Daryl snorted and lifting him off the ground. Rick wrapped his legs around Daryl’s waist and Daryl pushed him gently up against a different wall, kissing him passionately. “Is this what we’re doin’ now,” Rick asks between kisses.

“Hmm?” Daryl makes a point not to take his lips too far away from Rick’s. “Ain’t no one ‘round, pretty boy. Our secrets safe fer now.”

Rick giggles and tightens his legs and arms around Daryl, pressing their bodies closer. Daryl chuckles back, relaxing his mouth against Rick’s so the kiss turns chaste. They stay there for a minute or two, with Rick’s hands sneaking up the back of Daryl’s shirt and Daryl’s hand tangled in his boys previously tamed mane while the other slide up his thigh. Rick sighed into Daryl’s mouth when they broke apart, Daryl’s lips immediately skimming down to Rick’s collar. He pushed it aside with his nose, attaching his mouth to Rick’s skin where he was sure it would be covered by his shirt. Rick let out a whine when Daryl’s teeth nipped at the bruise, the younger boy desperately pressing into Daryl even more.

“Daryl! Rick!” Maggie’s shout from downstairs made Daryl rip away from his handiwork, a scowl on his face. “Glenn’s here, let's go!”

“Oh, I’m gonna kill them,” Daryl growled, and Rick chuckled. Rick nuzzled into Daryl’s neck and Daryl reluctantly pulled them away from the wall, kissing Rick quickly before letting him drop to the ground.

Rick looked beautiful post-kiss, his hair in disarray and his pink lips slightly bruised, his cheeks flushed. Daryl smirked at him, slipping around him and opening the door in invitation. Rick raises his eyebrows in Daryl’s direction, gesturing pointedly at the door.

“After you,” Daryl purrs, his tongue swiping over his lips. He notices how Rick’s eyes follow the movement, how his posture shifts. Rick mumbles thanks and shuffles out of the bathroom, Daryl’s hand shooting out and slapped his ass. Rick yelped in surprise and looked over his shoulder at Daryl, who shrugged and smirked. Rick grinned back sheepishly.

“Stop,” he says, blushing and ducking his head. “Le’s go.”

Daryl follows Rick down the hall into the kitchen, where Maggie and Glenn were leaning against the counter in casual conversation. Glenn looked up, straightening a little when he saw Daryl waltzing towards them. The first time Daryl met the small Asian boy, and found out he was trying to date Maggie, Daryl gave him a one on one shovel talk and scared the poor kid half to death. Daryl doesn’t remember exactly what he said, but he knew it was something along the lines of _if you break her heart I’ll chop_ _y'up and feed ya to yer god damn family on Thanksgivin’ day y'hear me, boy?_

But after Maggie smacked Daryl upside the head for attempting to scare away another potential boyfriend, Glenn and Daryl actually became pretty good friends. Although, with the exception of Glenn being deathly afraid of the angry redneck and his too-big-too-loyal black dog.

“Hey, sunshines,” Maggie greets. “What were you guys doin’?”

Daryl feels Rick stiffen beside him and quickly says, “Fixing our hair,” Maggie raises an eyebrow, raking her eyes over their kiss-messy hair. Daryl smirks and shrugs. “To no avail.”

“Right,” Maggie chuckles and puts her hand on Glenn’s shoulder. “Rick, this is Glenn, Glenn-- Rick.”

The two exchange greetings quite happily, while Daryl and Maggie say goodbye to Atlanta. They never risked taking her to parties -- there was too much smoke or too much violence; better to keep her safe at home with Hershel and Beth. Daryl looked up from his dog when there was an obnoxious pounding on the side door. Glenn winced a little, moving away from the offending sound.

“Abe’s here,” Daryl grunts, grabbing the duffle bag they had filled with alcohol and drugs. Glenn eyes it suspiciously, and Daryl smacks him hard on the shoulder. “First party?” the smaller boy nods, shooting a glance towards Maggie, who was attempting to fix Rick’s hair. “Don’t worry,” Daryl purrs. “It ain’t that bad.”

The gang heads outside, where Abraham is long gone -- probably already at Rosita’s. Daryl leads the way up the road, veering onto the dirt road that leads to the swimming hole, but passing the path. They slip past Daryl’s house, careful to stay in the shadows just in case. When they get past the lights flashing through the window from his father watching TV, they start jogging down the road; the only sound the muffled crunching of stones beneath their feet.

They skid to a halt in front of Rosita’s house, the last and most secluded house on the street. There was already a low rumbling cadence of music blaring from the house, and the smell of weed and beer offended their senses when they walked up the porch stairs to the front door. Daryl paused with his hand on the knob, turning to his group.

He winked and flung the door open. “Welcome to hell.”

\--

Daryl lost his trio sometime in the night, after he got the most hammered and got dragged away by Carol and Michonne. He spent most of that said time doing jell-o shots and wrestling Abraham. He admits defeat when Tyreese Williams, who was much bigger (and yet, so much nicer) than Daryl, offers to wrestle him next. Daryl was sober enough to know he’d lose that one, and decides to hiccup and giggle his way into the next room in search of his boy.

“Rick!” he calls out, tripping over a couple making out on the ground in the hallway. He snorts when he recognizes Rosita and Tara, making a mental note to bring it up tomorrow. That is if he remembers. Daryl pouts when he can’t find Rick with just the help of his voice, so he stumbles around the house until he gets to the living room.

There, he finds Rick sat on the couch, a beer raised to his lips and his attention on what ever story Michonne was telling. Carol was on the boy’s right and Maggie his left, her own attention completely on Glenn and his hand up her shirt. Daryl’s whole face lights up when he saw his boy, and he came up behind the couch and breathes onto his neck.

“Come hang out with me, pretty boy,” he hiccups more than speaks, but Rick stiffens and gets the message. Daryl twirls away, winking at Glenn and Maggie before waiting for Rick by the doorframe. Rick quickly excuses himself and joins Daryl in the hallway, grinning from ear to ear. Daryl gives a quick look around, and when he makes sure nobody was paying any attention to them, he promptly shoves Rick into the nearest closet.

Rick chuckles when Daryl’s mouth tries to find his, promptly pushing Daryl against a wall. “Where have you been all night?” Rick questioned, shoving his thigh in between Daryl’s. He doesn’t kiss him, not yet, but rather applies even more pressure onto Daryl’s groin. Daryl lets out a highly inappropriate moan, leaning up into the other boy.

“Gettin’ drunk, or somethin’,” Daryl replies, again fumbling to kiss Rick in the dark closet. There's hardly any light, just a vibrate strip of dancing colors coming from the space between the door and floor. With the pitiful light source, Daryl could just barely make out Rick’s solid frame in front of him, a taunting hair length away. “You gon’ kiss me or not, Grimes?”

“Course, baby,” Is all Rick says before they’re kissing, teeth scraping together and bodies molding into one. Daryl breathes out a moan in relief, his hands finding Rick’s curls, messing them up more than they already were. Rick lets out a purr, his hand sliding down Daryl’s hip to grip his ass, pulling the older boy closer. Daryl chuckles and breaks contact just long enough to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it aside to God knows where.

Then, as quickly as it started, it was over.

The door flings open, casting the pair in all too bright lights. They rip away from each other, breathing heavily and staring in horror at Tyreese’s sister Sasha and her boyfriend, Bob. If there was anyone else there, Daryl didn’t care, because he was already hurling himself out of the closet and onto Bob.

He was beating the shit out of the boy before his not-so-sober mind could decide otherwise. Daryl was too drunk and high to know exactly what went down, but he does remember familiarly strong arms wrapping him in a bear hug and yanking him away, shouts and cries, and the cold night air hitting his body like an eighteen-wheeler.

Abraham tosses him onto the grass, shouting over his shoulder at Maggie to shut the door behind her. Daryl’s head was spinning and throbbing, and there was a dull ache in his newly healed knuckles. He groaned and curled in on himself, the hard impact with the ground sending sparks of pain into his barely healed ribs. Daryl just barely registers orange hair and green eyes through the haze of pain. His stomach aches dully in the background of his registrable feelings, both from the bile rising in his throat and the bruises on his abdomen.

Briefly, he’s thankful Merle isn’t here to see him like that; that wasn’t a beating he could necessarily handle on top of everything. _Get up and stop_ _bein'_ _a pussy!_ His older brother would say. The sick feeling worsens.

“Daryl,” Maggie says softly, and her gentle hands on his face stop the dizziness in his head. Daryl tries sitting up, but between the alcohol and drugs and adrenaline in his system, he throws up to the side of them. His friends grimace but ignore it, focusing their attention on him. Maggie continues, “What was that?”

“He--” Daryl starts, words catching in his throat. “They--”

“Is this about you and Rick?” Abraham questions softly, sitting back on his haunches. Daryl nods, swallowing the taste of bile in his throat. Maggie lets out a small giggle.

“Honey, everyone saw you go into that closet,” she explains, and Daryl’s jaw goes slack open. “Y’aren’t that sneaky.”

Daryl groaned and fell back into the night-cooled grass, the pounding in his head going in sync with the music. “Where’s Rick,” he whispers, almost too afraid and ashamed to know the answer.

“Inside,” Abraham and Maggie answer in unison. Daryl nods and clambers to his feet, ignoring the urge to hurl again. He starts down the street towards Maggie’s house, wanting nothing more than to pass out on her bed. He hardly makes it a couple steps before he collides with the ground again. Abraham calls out to him, but Maggie shushes him.

“I got him,” Daryl just barely hears her say before she’s at his side, gentle hands inspecting the cuts on his face. Abraham snorts, a mix of disbelief and disinterest; he’s gone inside the house again in the seconds it takes Maggie to drop her hands to her side. “Did y’leave anything in there?”

Daryl blinks rapidly through the pounding in his head, struggling to recall events just minutes before. _When did I get punched? I don’t even remember that happening. How far gone am I?_

“Jus’ my shirt,” he replies. He surprises himself in how sturdy his voice is, minus the drunken slur. Maggie nods and dashes back inside the house, leaving Daryl groaning on the grass. In some immeasurable amount of time -- maybe seconds, maybe minutes, Daryl’s not sure -- she’s back, seemingly empty-handed.

“Well I couldn’t find your shirt--” she starts.

“There’s a difference between not looking and not finding.”

“--but I snuck this.” Maggie holds up an almost-full bottle of Smirnoff. The grin on her face is enchanting.

“Strawberry Smirnoff?” Daryl snorts and struggles to his feet. Maggie holds out a hand that he throws his pride aside to grasp. “Do y’want me to grow a vagina?”

Maggie laughs and swings one of Daryl’s arms over her shoulder, supporting him as they started walking down the road, leaving the party behind. “Get over it, buddy, its all I could get.” After a moment of silence, she adds: “I hope you weren’t too attached to that shirt.”

Daryl wrinkles his nose. “Naw, s’fine. Pro’ly woulda gotten ruined eventually.”

“Yeah, probably,” Maggie sniggers, voice whistling around the top of the bottle. The sound of vodka swishing in its bottle was the only sound that cut through the silence of the night. When she’s recovered from the long swig she took, Maggie rasps: “What were you thinking?”

Daryl glares at her, snatching the bottle and growling. “What?”

“Going into that closet like that.” Thankfully, Maggie doesn’t sound angry or annoyed, just confused. Daryl rolls his eyes when she continues. “You can’t expect to keep it a secret when you drag each other into a closet. What did you think? Everyone was jus’ gonna assume you two were, I don’t know, shaking hands?” Daryl tries drowning her out by burning a hole in his throat with vodka. “Daryl, it was a party, people were doing Jell-O shots off people’s asses.”

At that, Daryl snorts and chokes. He, despite the pain in his esophagus, laughs, loud and foreign on the abandoned street. Maggie takes the bottle from him and laughs, too. Daryl leans his head against her shoulder, allowing her to take most of his weight. They walk like that for a while, back down the street towards the warm yellow glow of Maggie’s porch light, passing the bottle back and forth until they were tripping on their own two feet. It occurs to Daryl that Maggie left Glenn back at that party, and he wonders if she knows, or even cares, judging by how she was showering him with much-needed attention. _We’ll deal with it in the morning,_ Daryl decides.

The porch steps creak under their feet, alerting Atlanta, who barks sharply once from inside the house. Thankfully, Hershel or Beth left the door unlocked, which spared them the trouble of not so graciously fumbling around for a key. When they finally conquered the seemingly never-ending and insurmountable battle with the stairs, they flop down on Maggie’s bed, bodies heavy with alcohol and exhaustion.

“Maggie?” Daryl breathes, slipping in and out of consciousness.

“Hmm?”

“I fucked up, didn’t I?”

A hand slaps down unintentionally hard on his cheek, no doubt intended to be soft. Maggie trails her fingers up to their proposed destination, Daryl’s hair. Gentle she cards her hands through it, pulling out the knots and leaving him less conscious and more surrounding by the warmth of sleep than he was just moments before.

“A little bit, sweetheart.” If nothing else, Daryl could always count on Maggie to be honest. “We’ll deal with it in the morning,” she continues quietly, closer to his ear than he expected. Cushioned by Maggie’s soft bed, with Atlanta snoring quietly nearby, wrapped up in the haze of sleep and the buzz of intoxication, its easy to obey when Maggie commands with a voice like silk: “Its okay to rest now.”

**Author's Note:**

> yay or nay


End file.
